A Place Called Gethsemane
by hopesallthings
Summary: Edward, Jasper and Emmett are the adopted sons of Carlisle and Esme, struggling to make it through high school while dealing with everything life has thrown their way. Canon pairings AH/AU Warning: contains adult content
1. Chapter 1

**Preface**

_Then Jesus came with them to a place called Gethsemane. ~Mathew 26: 36_

Maybe there was a reason we were all brought together. It's not like we were anything alike. A jock, a Ray Charles II, and a depressed kid. Not much in common.

One of us had a long history of leukemia. They were strong though; they pulled through. Still, none of us were ever really the same after that.

The other was blind. That one's pretty self-explanatory.

The other of us just hid under a sheet. You know who I'm talking about; the quiet one who always sits in the back corners, reading instead of talking.

Didn't make much sense that we were all so close.

Except one thing.

Our parents were all dead.

That seemed to be enough cause for us to collide head on with one another.

Fate?

I never much believed in that. If I did, then there wouldn't be much worth living for, considering how crappy my life had been going so far.

God?

Maybe He was the one behind our unorthodox family. Maybe there really was a purpose for all of this.

Didn't really matter what it was though; our differences never really mattered. Because we all had something else; one huge, big thing, in common.

We were brothers.

And we all lived in our own hells, prevented to be the people we wanted to be by some force of nature. We all knew it was going to end badly, but kept going anyway, kept living despite the fact we were all somehow about to die in one form or another.

We knew our endings. We knew they would be bad.

Didn't once stop us.

Kind of like Jesus.

In a little place called Gethsemane.

* * *

A/N: Seriously, you guys don't have to review if you don't want to. This is just a basic intro for what I have in mind for this story. Also, sorry I don't update very frequently, but my schedule is packed to the limits right now. But I shall strive to do my best to keep up an acceptable pace! Plus summer vacation's almost here so I should be getting a little more time soon. :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter I**

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth— for your love is more delightful than wine.__ ~Song of Solomon 1:2_

**Edward**

Biology. It was the one word that drove fear into the hearts of teenagers all over the nation.

_Her hand slid further up my thigh._

Seven letters.

_Traced the hem of my jeans._

Four consonants.

_Twisted into my pocket._

Three vowels.

_Her breath deepened. _

Four syllables.

_Pencil scratched against paper. _

Seemed simple enough.

_She wasn't paying attention to the notes though._

Just one word, right?

_Traveled the length of my belt, brushing under my shirt; the skin of my waist._

Then again, fear is only one word too.

_Entwined her hand with mine under the table._

Still, I never really minded the class.

Seemed to pass rather quickly—too quickly—for some reason.

I never could figure out why.

"Get to it," Mr. Banner finally said after his thirty minute speech finished with the dramatic conclusion of instructions for our lab assignment. After all, nothing more fun than listening to that, was there?

Bella sighed besides me, giving one small, quick laugh as everyone around us started their own conversations. "I thought that would never end," she mumbled, sounding every bit as relieved as she did the last time we had to listen to him talk that long.

Which was yesterday.

You know, in case you were curious or something.

I chuckled quietly, setting the slide in place on the microscope, sliding it towards her when I was done and patiently waiting for her to tell me what type of bacteria it was. After a long moment, her quiet voice broke through the haze of dialogue from our classmates. "Chlorobia." Her pencil once again scratched on our worksheet as I replaced the sample, our regular routine easily flowing into place with ease.

"You know," I said quietly, my lips tugging up slightly, "you're very distracting when you want to be." The memory of her skin on my leg popped into mind.

She quickly exhaled, holding back another laugh. "And who said I was trying?"

I began to play with my pen, twisting the cap off and on, not really caring much if I was getting ink on my fingers or not. Instead of answering, I vouched to smile to myself.

"Proteobacteria," she continued, not bothering to wait for my response.

It took another five minutes before she announced she was done, quickly gathering up the now scribbled on papers and setting them on the corner of the table to be collected.

"So," I started after a long moment of silence. "Are you coming over tonight?"

"I'm not sure," she answered softly, sounding rather dejected at the lack of knowledge. "Charlie said that he might need some help cleaning out our attic. I don't think he's been up there since he first moved here, and I don't have any clue why he wants to go up now. Apparently my luck's really that bad that he'd start something like that only after I arrived."

My grin tugged up further. "I've told you Bella, you're a magnet for bad luck. How many times do I have to say it to make it clear to you?"

She kicked my shin lightly, deciding too much physical violence wouldn't be worth the effort. "Whatever."

My muscles contracted as the bell rang, the sound vibrating harshly through my ears in a painful shriek.

Typical.

One would think that I may have gotten used to the sound after so many years here. Apparently not. It really was a pity that I was going to be damned to it for another year and a half.

A very impressive half second later, and the sounds of chair legs were grating against the floor, poisoning the peaceful atmosphere as voices began to burst out alongside them. Someone began laughing at something from the other side of the room, a crash ringing out as one of the boys who always tackled everyone else in their rush to escape the classroom knocked something over.

Before I had the chance to become annoyed by the immature behavior, Bella's soft voice appeared, inches away from my face. "Come on," she murmured.

I willingly got up, my binders pressed into my open and awaiting arms. I clutched them closely to my chest as she gently tugged, leading me forward, though we hung back away from the crowd. Being amongst them never sounded like a very safe location to be.

Entering into the hallway, we were pummeled by the pounding of footsteps and conversations. Exactly like every other day. I couldn't remember the last time anyone in this school had remained quiet for over five seconds.

Five miserably long seconds.

I felt her pull me around the corner a moment later, down towards seventh hour. Our pace slowed as we neared, neither of us particularly appreciating any close proximity to it.

Wasn't much of a choice there though, was there?

Trig. The last class of the day. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad—actually, I probably would've liked it—if I actually got to sit next to Bella. Unfortunately, it was the one class where the teacher hated us enough to not let us pick our own seating arrangements. So, while she sat in the very front, I, of course, was in the very last possible seat on the other side. And my stupid desk squeaked. If my life wasn't bad enough already…

I could tell we were in the room when the noises suddenly quieted down, the conversations no longer echoing throughout long corridors but instead subtly being said in quiet tones, among less people. She continued pulling me towards the back, stopping when we reached my desk. Briefly, she kissed my cheek, her lips feeling perfect against my cold skin. An electric tingling ran up the side of my face, leaving a numbness in its' place.

A perfect numbness.

One that reminded me of the purpose to life.

"See you after class," she mumbled. I couldn't help but smile at the hesitation in her voice. The hesitation meant that she didn't want to leave me. It was the same hesitation that she always got when we had to be away from each other—no matter how short the time we were away may be. And maybe I was being a selfish bastard in smiling at her disappointment. Couldn't really stop myself though.

She wanted me.

_Me._

Being wanted by the most beautiful creature that ever had walked the planet was, well…cool.

The feeling evaporated the moment she left my side, the chair suddenly seeming like blades of death underneath me. Still, I suppose it was better than the classes that we had apart. Different seats were bad; different classes were the purest tortures of hell anyone could possibly cook up.

Sighing quietly to myself, I leaned back against the hard wood, trying not to wince at the shrill whine of protest I got.

It had to be a loose screw or something.

Or a cruel joke from God.

Either one made sense.

Mr. Varner started the class about a minute before the bell rang. Nothing unusual there. I easily drowned him out, ignoring the sound of his nasally voice. Truth be told, he sounded bored himself. He couldn't honestly expect us to enjoy the class when he himself was practically falling asleep in the front. It would be hypocritical to expect any of us to get higher than a C.

Math had always come easily to me. The numbers all made sense; all fitted together inside my head.

I liked it.

There were no maybes and doubts to it. Either the answer was right or it was wrong. There was no opinion to numbers. It was a security that I didn't have anywhere else. Every other class involved some form of guessing. History; you never knew for sure what had always happened. There were so many mysteries involved with each and every thing—too many, if you wanted my honest opinion. English; you always needed something to support your answer. You thought Juliet Capulet was annoying, fine, so long as you give reason after reason why. Think Beowulf was just an overrated and cocky prince in armor, fine, so long as you gave a paragraph of explanation. Science; great. Until you mess up an experiment. Until you find out that what you thought was originally right was actually dead wrong. Only you'd never have a way to prove it all for sure, because science was made up of guess and check more than anything else. Never knew if the checking would be accurate or not, because there's no ultimate, permanent world textbook that can work it all together.

Math had more than theories. Math had more than crappy opinions that nobody really cared about. It had facts. It had reason. It had basis. It had an incentive.

Just a really bad teacher.

A _really_ bad teacher.

So, I learned how to start tuning him out, putting all my concentration into other small noises. Tapping pencils, the leaky radiator, the overhead projector, the banging heater, the cracked window that wind would always slip in through. I was getting pretty good at it all, too. That's when my A's began sinking down to the low B's. Then came the high C's. Before I knew it I was handing a report card with a red D circled on it over to my parents.

Needless to say, they weren't too happy about that one.

Every single last shred of enjoyment I used to gain from math had been stripped away from me with this year's teacher. No fun, no learning, no sense. And the worse thing I could possibly endure: no Bella.

* * *

**Jasper**

I slammed my locker shut, eager to get home. Anywhere away from this building sounded like heaven at the moment.

Of course, after being stuck in the same building for over seven hours for the past three years, those feelings tended to naturally emerge.

Keeping my head down and my hood pulled up as far over my face as it would go, I slowly made my way down the hall, ignoring the pain it sent through my body as I did so.

Biting my lip, I moved my hand in a tight grip around the strap of my backpack, saying a silent prayer of thanks that not many people were still lingering around. Most had fled, just as happy as me that the day was over. It was nothing short of a blessing dropped on my doorstep, complete with glittery paper and a red bow.

The cold air stung my face as I pushed my way through the front doors, my feet kicking up dirty water as the unavoidable but common puddles continued to come at me. It took only a matter of seconds for my hair to start sticking to my neck and forehead, the light rain around me pounding against my back. Understandably, by the time the Volvo's handle was in my palm, I was soaking wet, my jeans and black sweatshirt drenched in cold.

It didn't escape Bella's notice.

A shiver ran down my body as I slipped in, and she glanced worriedly over at me. "Are you alright? You look like you're in the midst of catching hypothermia."

"Pneumonia and frostbite," I muttered in correction, way too low for her to hear.

Sniffing, I quickly revved the engine and waited impatiently for the heat to start up on full-blast.

I was greeted with cold air.

Figures.

I could feel her gazing at me, and I glanced back at her in the rearview mirror, smiling softly in an attempt to brush off her concern.

Making my lips go up took more energy than I could remember it taking.

"I'm fine. Having gym outside isn't exactly the best thing to do in February is all." At least it was my last class, which meant I wouldn't be stuck in a building with a broken-beyond-the-extremes heating system. But really, did we have to necessarily be on grass to play soccer? I had _thought_ it was a perfectly acceptable sport to play inside a gymnasium.

Obviously not.

She gave me a sympathetic smile at the exact same time Edward snorted from the passenger's seat, clearly not very compassionate to the tortures of my life. "You think you're unlucky? At least you have decent teachers."

"Relatively," I mumbled, otherwise ignoring him. Instead I concentrated on finding an open space in the line of cars, all steering out onto the road. They didn't seem to mind how they got there. The push and shove method seemed like a hit.

I held my hands in front of my mouth, deeply exhaling in an attempt to warm them. The thirty degree weather was starting to catch up to me, the piercing pain in my head increasing with each minute that ticked by. All I could do was concentrate on my one goal: getting home and downing whatever was left of my depleting bottle of Tylenol, followed by collapsing on my bed and staying there until I died.

It sounded like a rather pleasant idea, if anyone asked.

As the traffic began to die down, I slid my way into the back of the group, hoping the ice that was there this morning was at least somewhat melted by now.

No such luck.

The tires slid a bit a few cars in front of me, and I gripped the steering wheel a little more firmly, trying to force myself to wake up a bit more.

I was a bad driver to start with. Driving in the rain was an 'ooh.' Driving in the rain and ice was cause for a 'close your eyes' Driving in the rain and ice while tired was a definite 'kill me now Lord and make it brief.'

It didn't help that my eight other lives had basically been spent already.

I let out a sigh of relief the second I successfully made my way onto the road, cringing away from the idea of having to repeat the exact same thing again tomorrow. It had never really been the highlight of my day.

The rain pounded against the windshield as I accelerated, grateful as the warmth began to kick in.

Then my joy disappeared.

Spasms of sharp pain shot through my body, my skin feeling like it was being pricked with a million little pins as my muscles ached from the feeling of being stabbed with daggers. I shifted, trying to get into a more bearable position until it ended, though whichever way I twisted it only became worse.

Just my luck.

Just my fucking shitty luck.

_See Coach Clapp? Your health _can_ be affected by standing outside in winter for forty minutes with no hat or coat or gloves. Don't want to say 'I told you so', but..._

Scowling ahead, I eased my way around the turn to Bella's house, coming to a slippery stop in front of the curb, relaxing just slightly to see that I hadn't crashed into anything.

She moved around the headrest to peck Edward on the cheek, just like she did every other day.

And like every other day, I smirked to myself to see his reddening face.

Ridiculous. He was modest about one kiss. Couldn't wait for the day when the two went on a double date with Emmett and Rosalie.

The minute her door slammed shut, I pulled away, moving slowly down the nearly deserted roads of Forks, my speed picking up as soon as we hit the back ones that led to our house. The windshield wipers ruined the silence as the squeaked on, working as hard as ever to clear the now pouring rain in time enough for me to see the next few feet.

It felt like a huge feat when I finally pulled into our garage without any known damage done to the car.

Or Edward and me, for that matter. I suppose making it through each car ride was always something to be at least a little thankful for.

Pulling out the keys and unlocking the handles, I quickly flung my door open, ignoring the second rounds of throbbing ache the sudden action spurred forward.

_Tylenol and bed, here I come._

Walking inside, I shred my wet jacket off, throwing it somewhere and not bothering to care and see where it landed. My backpack just fell off my shoulders and onto the ground, though this time I didn't even bother kicking it to the side, like I normally would have.

I didn't think my body was really capable of that at the immediate moment.

Edward came in behind me, welcoming himself home in an identical fashion, making his way over to the living room couch and naturally began to search for the remote. I grabbed it from the coffee table and tossed it over to him as I passed. He mumbled a quick 'thanks' before beginning to rapidly click through it, waiting just barely long enough on each one to hear what show it was before moving on to the next.

I walked slowly towards the kitchen, my legs groaning in protest with each step.

Stupid gym. Stupid soccer. Stupid Washington weather.

Stupid everything in my stupid life.

The box of crackers on the counter were the first thing I saw, so I picked it up without a second thought, tearing the packaging open as I made my way upstairs to my room. After a long and harsh climb to the second floor, I half stumbled, half tripped into my room. Dropping what was the equivalent of my skipped breakfast and missed lunch, I began nearly tearing off my wet clothes, my stomach sinking after I slipped into some dry boxers and pajama pants and took the time to look at myself for the first time.

I was right.

I had gotten frostbite.

I moaned to the empty air, the now blackish tinted skin of my arms seeming to laugh at me, getting fun in its' mockery. Yanking on the closest sweatshirt that lay next to me on the messy floor, I wrenched off the covers of my bed, the temptation of the warmth it had to offer pulling me in. The exhaustion seemed to really hit me in waves right then, my vision blurring slightly as a shiver ran down my spine.

Of course, it was only at that moment when I remembered my earlier plans for the evening.

Reluctantly, I turned, grudgingly making my way over to my small bathroom. I leaned heavily against the wall when I reached it, my hand barely able to raise itself to pull out the red and white bottle.

It stopped dead in its' tracks at the too light weight it held.

Nearly screaming in disbelief, I gave it one firm shake.

It was empty.

* * *

A/N: Well, congrats if you got through that. Sorry, I know it's pretty slow right now, but once I get through the beginning stages, I promise it'll get better.

Or…I hope, anyway.

And as I said before, this story's one that I'm just going to be doing on my free time, so please don't be mad if it takes me a while to be updating. Anyway, if you'd like to keep reading, know that the plot line will improve. If you're sick of it already, I take absolutely no offence in you dropping it right now. But if you plan to keep reading, please review!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter II**

_Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted. ~Mathew 5:4_

_The rain pattered lightly against the roof, the thunder in the distance cracking in the storm. It wasn't anything unusual; the typical background noise of Forks, would be a relatively good description. Something they were all used to, give or take. _

_Edward lay asleep upstairs, tossing slightly in a nightmare._

_Carlisle and Esme sat in the living room, half full wine glasses that had been long since forgotten in hand. They stared out of the massive window that towered as a cover over the entire west side wall of the room, watching the lightening as it stroked down above the trees. Lightening didn't come as often. When it did accompany the showers, they took the opportunity._

_This time, it was a much needed one._

_The Cullen house hadn't exactly been one of the more peaceful, rest-giving places on the planet, over the course of the past few weeks, the stress levels of all three of the family members reaching new heights. Between Esme's worrying, her husband's desperate last attempts to somehow find a medically possible way to postpone the inevitable, and their son's wallowing in sorrow and misery for his newly defined future were leaving them all in a chaotic type of mess. A mess that was quickly becoming the norm, no less. _

_The days always seemed to endlessly follow in the same routine. Esme would make Edward's favorite breakfasts, whatever his choice was. He never seemed to notice though. He never seemed to have the ability to, because he never seemed to have the appetite to eat. He'd board the bus, heading out to his first grade class, a cloud of misery always hanging over his head. Carlisle would spend his two week vacation pouring over books and making calls to well known acquaintances and past colleagues, trying to find something—anything—that would prove helpful in the feat he was trying to accomplish._

_Finding a cure to the blindness that had started the entire chaotic disruption._

_This Sunday, however, had been even more tense than the past few. The blurry vision had turned into a worse scenario, splotches of black blanketing out bits and pieces of the dimly lighted color that remained. _

_The tears that had quickly found their way into Edward's eyes hadn't helped all that much either._

_After hours of steady comfort, they had finally gotten him to go to sleep, momentarily escaping reality for something they hoped would be a better world. Neither of them, however, could get the disturbing conversation of earlier from their mind._

_Hence the alcohol._

_Esme fidgeted once more, playing with the golden wedding band on her left hand, twisting it around her finger for the twenty fourth time that night. His small, innocent voice wouldn't leave her mind, haunting her thoughts in a cruel type of manner. Clearly, luck wasn't on her side anymore. "He thought we wouldn't want him," she murmured, gaze slightly unfocused as his chubby face came back to mind. The words—so fearful had they been brought up—had sent a dagger of pain through her heart, only continuing to sear in deeper._

_He thought they wouldn't want him._

_Carlisle sighed, coming behind her and wrapping his arms around her slender waist. He kissed the top of her head, deeply inhaling the scent of her lavender and honey shampoo. "I know." There was a long moment of silence. "He wasn't thinking."_

"_Yes, he was," she corrected without hesitation, not bothering to even try and absorb any of his comforting. She didn't want to hear it, nor did she want it to help. If she was as terrible a parent as she was quickly beginning to rethink herself of, then she deserved whatever guilt fate could muster on her._

_Fate plus a seven year old boy._

_It all equaled more than she could hope to handle._

"_Carlisle, he _thought we wouldn't want him_." Her words were more growled out this time, the frustration getting to her. The idea was completely unfathomable to the both of them—ridiculous, for all intents and purposes. She didn't know why it bothered them so much. The fact that he thought it could be true?_

"_Esme," he whispered softly, "he hasn't been here for very long. He didn't feel like he belonged yet, and then something like this comes up." He tightened his hold around her, moving his drink to the small coffee stand. "Just give it time. Give him time." Time that he desperately needed. _

"_It's been months." Months went by rather slowly. _

"_His parents died. He's been in grieving." He moved his lips down to her neck, pressing them there, inhaling her sweet perfume. "It's going to take patience to help him heal from that loss." Patience that Esme was quickly debating whether she had or not._

_She understood, yes. She had mourned right along with him, regardless of the fact that she had never known the dead. But every time she saw his face, the frown on it, she couldn't help but question exactly how much of the patience that had gotten her this far was left in the preciously dwindling supply. She wasn't getting tired of him, no. She was getting tired of his depression._

_And those were the times when she wondered exactly how much she had cut out to be a mother._

_Carlisle continued. "And then he was brought into a new, already settled family. Then we moved away from Chicago, no less. From the only place he was familiar with." His hold became firmer. "Let him adjust in his own way, in his own time."_

_She huffed in frustration. "And completely ignore the fact that he's suffering? Carlisle, I understand that he needs to do this at a pace he's comfortable with, but if that pace is only going to make things worse for him, maybe it's a good idea if we intervened some." In what way they might do that, she had absolutely no clue, but the searing pain that burned at her heart was impossible to turn away from._

"_I've been thinking about that," he responded quietly. His voice would have been inaudible over the sheeting rain hitting the glass had it not been that he was inches away from her ear. "If he doesn't show improvement soon, I was thinking about getting him in to see a councilor. I know that he didn't want to when I suggested it before, but it might help him, to talk about some things." He paused, tone dropping even lower. "But we'd lose trust from him of an already excruciatingly thin line it we were to force him into something like that."_

_She sniffed. "He's seven. Not only that, but he's been going through several traumatic things in the past few months alone." She turned her head to look at him, expressions both darkened in the dimness of the unlit room. "Do you really think that he's capable of deciding what's best for himself right now? His age alone speaks quite for himself."_

"_He's very mature for that age," he gently debated. "He's smart enough and developed enough to be able to think things through, of not only what he wants, but of what options he has and which ones would be suitable." He touched his nose to her cheek. "We need to take that into consideration, and give him credit for that fact."_

_There was another quiet silence for a long moment, the two of them absorbing each other's words, running them over in their minds. The sudden hail that began to smash against the roof of the mansion provided a somewhat cushion between them, making the stillness more acceptable, less awkward, than it may have otherwise been. And although the two of them were held in a close embrace, it didn't make the wall that was steadily growing between them any less potent._

_It wasn't a new topic, the one they were lingering on. It had been a subject of several well-founded arguments in the past few weeks, all of which were becoming more and more common. And as Edward continued to not only get better, but instead deteriorate even more, what was previously a happy married couple, very, very rarely getting into fights, was becoming nothing short of constant disputes and endless questioning. Both wanted to help the newest member of their family._

_Both had different views of how exactly to do that._

_Again, the alcohol was helping rather wonderfully for them._

"_He doesn't deserve to have to keep going through this," she finally insisted, impossibly soft for what attitude that specific line was normally said through. "Least of all when it keeps piling up." She turned back to gaze outside once more. "How long do you plan to let him go on like this for?"_

_He didn't get a chance to answer._

_The bone chilling scream cut him off before he could._

"_No! Mommy help me! Help me Mommy!" Before she had the ability to process anything, her husband's arms had released from her, his body already sprinted halfway up the stairs before she regained any thoughts. She followed behind, running faster than she had ever thought was in her range of capabilities to do. _

_That was the first time he had ever called her something other than Esme._

_Even when it was shrieked, she liked it._

_By the time she made it to the second floor hallway, the light streaming from Edward's bedroom was illuminating the entire landing, the wooden build somehow looking cold and unfriendly compared to the warmth of home they usually gave her._

_Racing to his doorway, she stopped dead in her tracks when she arrived, a shaky hand hanging onto the frame as she tried to take in everything at once._

_Carlisle held their child in his strong arms, trying to calm him down to no avail. Edward struggled against his soothing grip, tears streaming down his face, head frantically shaking as his body convulsed slightly in uncontrolled movements. "Daddy please! Help me!"_

"_Edward!"_

_She shoved a fist in her mouth, feeling herself numb as she watched them._

"_Daddy I can't see!" He struggled for a long moment. "I can't see."_

_His screaming cut into her head like a burning hot dagger, piercing through the flesh as it went. _

_And all she could do was stand there._

"_Edward," Carlisle choked out, cradling his small head against his chest, cupped by his palm. _

_His wild thrashing calmed slightly. "Help me." _

_Esme turned, retreating back into the safe darkness of the hall. Her back fell against the wall as she slid down it, drawing her knees up to her chest._

"_Daddy hold me." _

_The sobs were impossible to block out though._

_She rocked herself back and forth, shoving her hand back deeper through her lips. She felt her teeth digging into the skin of her knuckles, but she could have cared less. Nothing as mundane as pain really mattered anymore._

_The only thing that mattered was her baby._

"_It's too dark. I'm scared Daddy, hold me!"_

_His screams._

"_It's too dark! I…I can't breathe!"_

_His hysterical sobs._

"_Shh, shh, shh." _

_Her husband's desperate attempts to calm him_

_Their child._

_Her child._

"_I know. I know Edward. I'm here. I'm right here." He was crying now too. Right alongside her baby. It didn't make sense, how quickly they could all fall apart like this. When they had first taken him into their home, she swore to herself that nothing would be able to tear them from each other. Now, things weren't looking as bright._

_The sun didn't come out as much in Forks._

"_Daddy, I can't breathe!" This time his voice was weaker._

_Weak and terrified._

"_Shh. It's alright." It was more anxious this time, below the obvious tears in his tone. "I'm right here Edward. I'm not going anywhere." He pulled the quivering bundle closer to him. "I'm here."_

_In one minute, her entire world was collapsing around her._

_And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it._

"_It's too dark."_

_She felt it; her world rapidly slipping away. Nothing to stop it. Nothing to slow it. Just watch it and let it hit the floor. Watch it shatter when it did. Watch it all become nothing short of dust; a mess, left to be cleaned up._

"_I know."_

_Pathetic, that she was hiding, while her husband was in what should have been her place. He had called for her, not for Carlisle. He had called for her._

_And she hid like a coward._

"_I can't see."_

* * *

_Carlisle glanced up from where he was pouring milk out into the two glasses set up on the dining room table, meeting Esme's sad gaze. Her head shook slowly in answer to the question written in his blue eyes, the plate of untouched lasagna and breadsticks in her grasp enough to not only back up but prove the point. Sighing, he brought the carton back to the fridge, rejoining her, the previously hopeful, optimistic air of the two of them lost, although it was no surprise that it would be._

"_He wasn't hungry?" he inquired quietly; melancholily. _

_She fell into her chair as he slowly lowered himself into his, not looking away from her tired face. "No. Again." She moved to play with her knife. "This time, he didn't even take the food and just throw it out, like he normally does." She leaned her head against her fisted hand, stretching over the table. _

_Over the past few weeks, Edward had done a fairly good job of hiding his lack of appetite from them; or so he though, anyway. He'd take the food that they'd bring up for him, pretending to finish it all. It had never occurred to him that they were the ones who took out the trash. They were also the ones who cleaned the bathrooms. _

_The vomit lingering to the edges of the toilet had never gone unnoticed by either of them. They had just never found the opportunity to ask whether or not it was on purpose that it was there. Honestly, neither of them were positive that they wanted to know, either._

_Confirmations were overrated. _

_Especially when it was to inquiry of depression-induced bulemia of a first grade boy, who probably didn't even know there was a medical condition for what he may have been doing._

_Quietly, the two of them said their usual mealtime prayer, starting to eat with absolutely no enthusiasm to their actions. Carisle smiled up at her after a moment—even his smile was laced in sorrow. "This is wonderful, Es." _

_Her reaction wasn't what he had been expecting at giving her a compliment, however often the specific one was used. She looked up at him, her face narrowing, scrunching up into a glare that rarely masked her normally sunny face. "This can't go on, and we both know it." _

_He watched her for a long moment before slowly lowering his fork back down, letting it rest atop the heavily cheesed pasta. "I know," he began cautiously, not extremely eager to wade once more into this territory. The water always tended to end up deep and rugged; full of undercurrents. "But—"_

"_And don't tell me 'he needs time,'" she snapped, swiftly interrupting him._

_He stared at her, face slightly shocked._

_Her mood had been down lately, yes. She had never taken that kind of tone with him though._

_Ever._

_When she saw his expression, she froze, face melting into an apologetic guilt. "I'm sorry Carlisle," she whispered, caramel coated chocolate curls falling slightly over her forehead. "I didn't mean that. I just…" she momentarily struggled for the right words. "I'm just not the most cheerful person today."_

_Cautiously now, he settled it with a shrug, brushing off his surprise at her sudden outburst. "That makes two of us then."_

_Shyly, she gazed up at him, ashamed of the words she hadn't had time to process before they were out of her mouth. More hesitant this time, she continued. "But we've already given him time, and we can't ignore that." She licked her lips. "He's not getting better, and we can't ignore that either. He's not eating, he's not talking to us, he doesn't have any friends." She pushed back into her chair, simultaneously crossing her legs and arms. "He's not living._

"_It's been weeks." She made her countenance firmer. "He needs help." And then it dropped back to a whisper. "Help that we obviously can't give him, no matter how hard we try."_

_It was silent for a long moment._

_He knew what she was saying was true. Every last sentence of it was screaming at him to listen. Still, the warning that forcing anything onto Edward would do nothing more than push him further away rang clear in his mind. The choices available were running thin, yes. But that never once lessened the truth of the entire matter: the line of trust between the three of them narrowed each day. 'Help' wasn't exactly on the top of his list to improve that._

_And then his attention fell onto Edward's food._

_His uneaten food._

_It had been going on long enough._

_After a long moment, he nodded. "Alright," he said quietly. "Alright." He rubbed a hand over his face. "Tommorow I'll take him to work with me. Get him into the hospital." He chewed slightly on the inside of his cheek, the silent hope that he was doing the right thing playing over and over in his mind._

"_What will happen?" she asked softly. _

_He pushed his elbows down onto he table. "I'll take him into the ER. Get a psychiatric evaluation. Esme," he began gently, "his depression is deep. We might need to take into consideration that it's possible he's been having…suicidal thoughts."_

_She swallowed deeply, lightly shaking his head. "He doesn't even understand what suicide is, he couldn't…"_

_Carlisle's eyebrows pulled together into a deep sadness. "Perhaps he doesn't understand the meaning of the word, no. But if he's having the emotions, then the age isn't going to stop it. If anything, it's going to make it all twice as dangerous. At this point, I'm not about to overrule it." He shot her a reassuring flash of a smile, though he felt anything but. "If he has been though, we'll get him help. They can help us there. There are psychiatrists, therapists, safe settings. He'll be alright once we get him in." _

_She kept her head faced down onto the dirty napkin on her lap. "Then what? After an evaluation?"_

_He played with the edges of his Rolex. "They'll probably want a blood test." He ran a hand through his blond hair. "See if there's any malnutrition. If there is, which judging by what he's been eating, there most likely will be, they'll want to go ahead and put an IV in. Get some fluids into his system before anything else happens."_

_Esme nodded, trying not to feel the wetness gathering in her eyes. "He's not going to like this."_

"_No. No, he's not." _

_Edward woke up in a cold sweat, breathing heavily as he was greeted by the dark. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks as he rapidly brushed it off with the back of his hand, not wanting his eyes to be red and puffy at all. He had been getting enough attention lately. More was less than welcome. _

_He pushed himself up, dreary, head spinning from lack of sleep. Shuddering, he tried to push out the nightmares that had haunted the entire two hours of unconscious he had gotten. His expression marred from an already gloomy into a fierce anxiousness, his nerves—already high—increasing tenfold as the memories refused to leave, fighting to keep their place in him. _

_Groaning, he rolled over, stuffing himself down into the matress as far as his body would physically allow him to go. It was comforting. Down here, it would be dark any way. Down here, it wasn't just him._

_It wasn't just his sight._

_There was a light knock at his door, which he very pointedly ignored. Rude of him, yes. He knew better. Any other day, he would've done better. His parents had taught him manners and respect._

_He didn't really care anymore._

_He heard someone walk in, their step light as they slowly made their way across the room. The bed deflated slightly as an extra weight was added to it. _

"_Edward?"_

_Carlisle._

_Wearily, he pushed himself back from under the blankets, desperately hoping he'd be able to make out a face._

_Darkness._

_Blackness._

_It reminded him of hell._

"_I thought I heard you wake up." The voice was friendly, light._

_All an act._

_A sick act._

_When Edward didn't respond in the awkward silence that followed, Carlisle continued. "I was wondering if you might want to go out today. Do something…"_

_It mildly grabbed his curiosity._

_He didn't show it._

"_I though it'd be fun if you came to work with me. You've never been to the hospital here in Forks yet, have you?"_

_Silence._

_He didn't like hospitals._

_His parents died in a hospital._

_He cringed slightly at the reminder._

_More silence._

_Edward held his breath as he waited to hear the next words, absorbing the atmosphere like a sponge. His awareness—ability to know if someone was hiding something—hadn't deteriorated like the rest of everything else had. It was no less strong now._

"_What aren't you telling me?" The voice was raw from crying. Raw from screaming at each dream he had._

_It didn't surprise either of them._

_More silence._

_A sigh._

"_There are a few different people there that I'd like you to meet."_

_More silence._

"_People who would love to talk to you. Help you."_

_His muscles clenched. His jaw tightened. His entire body went into its' usual, defensive tenseness. _

_Figures._

_What else would Carlisle want?_

_Cautiously, Carlisle lied back on the sheets beside him, trying to be oblivious to the sudden heavy feeling of betrayal that seemed to emit from him. Useless, when it all came down to it. He had already said it. He had already felt it. The damage had been done, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to take it back. But the picture of Esme in his mind, replaying last night's exchange, made him question if he really wanted to, or if it had just become a necessity to him._

"_I don't need help."_

_Classic, unoriginal words of denial. They had been expected._

_It hardly made it easier._

"_I think you and I both know that's not true."_

_Just as gentle tones didn't make it easier for Edward._

_He had always been advanced. He preferred the company of teenagers more so than those in his classes at school. He had a better understanding of things. Sometimes it made him smug. Sometimes it made his self-confidence block out other things._

_To him, Carlisle's comfort was nothing more than condescending. He didn't like being treated like any less of an adult than anyone else._

_To him, a scared animal—what he was seemingly being addressed as—didn't help in the least._

"_You promised that I wouldn't have to see anyone."_

_Terrible word choice._

_Both of them flinched._

"_No," Carlisle disagreed calmly. "I promised that you wouldn't have to go to anyone unless you weren't getting better. Edward, I'm sorry, but you haven't been doing that."_

"_No." It wasn't whined. It wasn't yelled. It was perfectly normal._

_It had all the impact in the world._

_More silence._

"_I'm not going."_

_More silence._

"_Edward…" It was less sure this time. "I don't think that it's up to you to decide. Not right now."_

_Outside, he was being stubborn._

_Inside, he was scared._

_Like anyone else would have most likely done in his position, he overdramatized it all, imagination taking control. When he was five, he had snuck downstairs at night. His dad was still up, watching a movie. He quietly took a place behind the couch, where his presence would go unnoticed. He learned after that night that sometimes, they didn't let him watch things for a reason._

_Like insomnia._

_Memories of men strapped to straightjackets and ECT's, neither of which he knew the purposes of, flashed through his mind. Was that what was going to happen to him if he went to the hospital? It seemed like a reasonable enough idea to take into consideration. _

"_No."_

_Carlisle and Esme wouldn't let that happen to him, would they? But they didn't want him anymore. They wouldn't want anyone who was blind._

_That's what he kept telling himself, anyway._

_More silence._

_Carlisle got up._

"_Come on Edward," he said softly. "Let's get you dressed." _

_Exactly like a scared animal._

_He was malnourished. Dehydrated. Starving himself. They put him on an IV within the first hour. He fell asleep._

_He wasn't bulimic. Just couldn't keep the food down. Wasn't anorexic. Just couldn't keep the food down._

_Wasn't suicidal. Just depressed. Severely depressed. He saw five different analysts in that first day. All of them agreed he needed help._

_All questioned his age._

_All wondered how that would affect the final choice._

_All of them questioned his new blindness._

_All wondered how that would affect the final choice._

_Prozac._

_That was the final choice._

_They took him home Wednesday._

_He kept taking it._

_He started eating. _

_He started talking._

_He started belonging._

_He started _being_._

_He learned Braille. _

_He was good at it._

_He learned how to use a cane._

_He was good at it._

_He learned how to use a clock to eat._

_He was good at it._

_He learned how to get around the house._

_He was good at it._

_He taught himself how to play the piano._

_He was really good at it._

_On Christmas Santa gave him a guide dog._

_He loved her._

_She took up all his time._

_He forgot music._

_She died seven weeks later._

_They never found out who the driver was._

_He went back to his piano._

_He never left it._

_He ate. He slept. He went to the bathroom._

_Otherwise he was at his piano._

_Second grade._

_He left his summer blind school. He went back to Forks Elementary. He was shunned._

_He didn't care._

_He was in a real school._

_They took him off the Prozac._

_October._

_A new girl came to town._

_Her name was Bella._

_She wasn't blind._

_She didn't play the piano._

_She wasn't like him._

_He loved her._

**Bella**

Edward's chest evenly rose and fell beneath me, lulling me into a deep want for sleep. Only I didn't want to sleep. Not with my god right there. Every second with him was like a miracle repeating itself. Sleep wasn't important compared to him. It was trivial. Unbelievably unimportant.

I traced the collar of his shirt, my fingers playing with the buttons in the front. I tried not to pay attention to the sculpted muscles that I could feel laid just beneath the fabric. It was an awfully hard thing to accomplish.

A second later, he caught my hand in his, taking it up to his mouth and kissing my knuckles. It made me feel even more insignificant.

Even my hand was ugly compared to his.

"I love you."

The blush pooled into my cheeks, and before I thought better of it, I was burying my face into his chest, biting my lip to keep back the squeal of joy that wanted to escape. I wasn't really positive how I got him. I didn't really care though either. I wasn't about to start asking questions for the marvels I received.

"I love you too."

* * *

A/N: I'm so, _so_ sorry that I haven't updated any of my stories in so long. Instead of making excuse after excuse, I'll summarize it to this: there have been many personal things going on for me lately, all piling on top of each other. Writing, as important as it is for me, wasn't my top priority that I needed to deal with. Thank you for your patience.

As for this story, I promise that it's going to start moving a little more now. For those of you who were questioning, Edward's blind (hopefully you were able to figure that out in this chapter. If not, something's wrong with one of us), Emmett's had leukemia before, and dear Jasper is the depressed one. Any suggestions of what you might want to hear in the next few chapters, let me know, and I'll try to fit it in! Thanks for all the support and putting up with all these lesser-exciting beginning parts. Love you all, and for those of you fellow students who'll be starting school soon, good luck with the year!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter III**

_A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion.  
The disciples woke him and said to him, "Teacher, don't you care if we drown?"  
~Mark 4: 37_

_Dr. Melissa Varner walked into the hospital cafeteria, fresh Caesar salad in one hand, fork in another, packet of patient charts tucked neatly under her arm. The smell of glazed bagels and warm pretzels hit her, one of the few elements of food here that she enjoyed. Eyes catching onto the form of Carlisle Cullen, hunched over a round table by himself in the corner, glaring at the papers spread before him, she happily walked over to where he was seated, clearing her throat after a moment. Blue orbs rose to meet hers, though the smile that was tugging against her lips vanished when she saw the exhaustion written in them._

"_I was wondering if you'd mind if I joined you."_

_She watched him carefully, realizing that it took him a longer time than typical to comprehend the meaning of his words. After a long five seconds though, he finally seemed to grasp hold of her statement, nodding to her once in acknowledgement, faking a welcoming expression that was clearly forced. "Of course, Dr. Varner." _

_Suddenly feeling awkward, she lowered herself less enthusiastically than she had planned into the hard, blue plastic chair adjacent to his own. She felt out of place as she began picking at the lettuce and tomatoes, taking notice that the only lunch in front of him was a cup of Starbucks coffee, untouched by the looks of it. Purposefully coughing into her hand, she kept her gaze locked onto his handsomely carved out face, the normally sharp features of it more tired than usual. "Are you alright Carlisle?"_

_His head snapped up, and he stared at her for a long moment._

_He had forgotten her presence. _

"_Of course," he easily lied, mind trying hard to keep up with the newly opened conversation. "Why do you ask?"_

_She shrugged lightly, normally hyper personality slowing into a deep caution. "You've just seemed a little out of it today. Plus you were late for your shift this morning." At his nearly incomprehensible crushed posture at being accused, she immediately tried to backfire. "I don't mean to blame you. We're all late once and a while. It's just…" She momentarily struggled to find the right words. "Not very common for you." At his silence, she cautiously slowly reached across the laminated surface of the table, softly laying her hand on his. He barely seemed to register the touch as she lowered her voice. "You know it helps to talk about things Carlisle. You're the one who's always reminding me."_

_Quiet loomed for a stretched minute before he sighed, breaking whatever façade was left in him and rubbing a hand through his blond hair._

_A part of him knew she was right._

_A part of him hated that she was right._

_A part of him rejoiced._

"_Have I ever told you how Esme and I adopted Emmett?"_

_She blinked quickly, not expecting that those words of any would be the ones he'd speak. Nevertheless, she gave a speedy 'no,' hoping that it was a thorough enough response for the question._

_He moved to toy with the edge of the page he was lingering on, the words written on it blurring. "He was eight when he was checked into the hospital I was working at at the time, down in Tennessee. Leukemia. His parent's weren't very rich. Actually, they could hardly afford to pay the bills. Still, they gave up everything they had to get him the best treatment that they could."_

_She listened as he talked, not wavering as the sentences were continually pushed. "He made more of an impression in those first few days than any other patient I had ever had." A small grin creased his features. "He understood far more than he should have. He knew there was a chance he'd die. He knew that he was worsening. Still, it was impossible to get him to stop being so…happy. Eventually, it came down to the point where the staff there was going to him to be cheered up, even when it should have been the other way around."_

_He broke off suddenly._

_Took a deep breath._

_Slowly continued._

"_It was raining that night," he whispered. "The other driver was drunk. They didn't know what had hit them; died immediately from the impact." Carlisle moved to scoff at the perfectly spotless tiles._

_It was too clean._

"_They called me. I was the closest doctor to him. By the time I got there, they were debating about sedating him. He was collapsed in the corner when I walked in. Huddled up on the floor. Crying. It took a good two hours for me to calm him down enough to a point where I was at all comfortable." He surprised her by suddenly laughing, a light tremble, more joyous than she had thought it was capable of. "The first words out of his mouth besides the sobs were reassuring me that it'd all be fine—that they made it to heaven, and that he was done being sad over it."_

_Melissa smiled fondly, imagining the scene. "That sounds like Emmett," she commented, a vision of the fourteen year old, burly son of her colleague. His son was always telling jokes._

_Always making her laugh._

_He didn't seem to hear her. "Ten days later, I was taking him home. It was one of the best choices that I had ever made."_

_His hand moved back up, fisting against the collar of his shirt. She could see the wetness accumulating in his eyes. "I knew what was happening at first, somewhere in the back of my head. I just didn't want to believe it." He choked. "So I didn't."_

_He moved his elbows up, burying himself into the palms of his hands. _

_A feeling of helplessness sunk in her gut._

"_The bruises, the headaches, the cramps…I knew what they meant from day one." He moved to meet her uneven, swaggering gaze. "We got him into a specialist yesterday."_

_She dropped her eyes._

"_His leukemia's back. Acute." _

"_Carlisle…I am so, so sorry."_

[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]

**Jasper**

Staying invisible. It's the one, singular rule that I've lived my entire life by. It was the one saving grace that managed to get me through each and every day alive. Because a simple fact always seemed to hang above my head like a noose to convicts on death row: I was weak. I was pathetic. I was worthless. I was the prey. The strong ones are the ones to survive; to thrive.

I wasn't strong. I never will be strong. I'm not sure that I ever want to be, either. Because when you're strong, you see the world differently. You see the world like you own it. And I don't want to be that person.

The strong ones kill the weak.

People like me.

People who everyone views as a waste of space and time and air. I had gotten used to it.

Edmund Burke once said, "No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear." I suppose that it could be an accurate statement for some people—for the stronger ones. But when you're weak, you get used to it. Fear doesn't exist anymore. You find ways to numb yourself. Not consciously, no. Naturally. After you start to figure out just how really destroyed your life is, it all falls into place. The constant high feeling that you're always in. The constant defense mechanism. It worked for me rather effectively.

Invisibility. Numbness.

Lifesavers.

Keep your head down. Don't make eye contact. Don't talk. Don't touch anyone. Don't let your shoulder brush against someone else's. Stay out of the way, no matter what happens. Avoid raising your hand in class. Never draw any sort of attention to yourself. Invisibility.

Ignore all words. Ignore all looks. Ignore all actions. Never let anything sink in. Don't get close—attached—to anyone; that's dangerous. Don't let it build up too high that everything else will be blocked out. When the emotional pain becomes too much, find other ways. Numbness.

Savers of my life. Lifesavers.

I'd given up long ago at trying to build up hope. Building up hope for me was like making a shelter of twigs and leaves on the San Andreas fault: meant to be crushed, torn down, completely destroyed until all that's left is dust and wood chips. You may want to keep that idea in mind if you plan to continue on with these words. I've never claimed that any of my actions are anything less than stupidly idiotic, so in an effort of fairness, I'll try to make sense of why I do certain things that I do.

I don't look forward to tomorrow. I don't wake up to a shining glorious sun perched high in the sky outside my window, and a strong scent of pancakes and coffee floating up the stairs. I punch my alarm clock with the small inkling of prayer that it may break under the force. I don't cheerfully await the day as if it were a magic rainbow with a leprechaun dancing on the other side. As gloomily as possible, I throw my own silent tantrum about all of it, and tread through the water.

Because this was Forks. And there was always going to be water in Forks.

The bottom of my converse hit the puddle, splashing up the muggy liquid onto my sweatpants. I couldn't really find the enthusiasm or heart to care enough to step any lighter with the next one. Again, it soaked through to my legs, and I'm sure that later I'd probably regret that I was idiot enough to have not planned ahead for the cold I'd be experiencing within the next minute. Still, it didn't really matter to me all that much.

I continued jogging, pushing myself faster as I felt the blood flow quickly through my veins, rapidly pumping in the desire to keep up with my quickly dissolving supply of energy. The tingling stabs of pain in my shins let out another wail of protest, but I ignored it, only speeding up further as I made it to the bottom of another winding hill. The breath passed rapidly in and out of my lungs, my chest dramatically rising and falling with each one beneath the black hoodie it was sheathed in. Adrenaline rushed further into my head, completely numbing my brain with a piercing ache that I could have cared less about.

The temperature had dropped tenfold since I had left the house, little more than twenty minutes ago.

It had been forty degrees at the time.

The golden tinted trees meshed together around me, my gaze unable to focus fully on what was in front of them. Dead silence was the only sound of the Washington forest, apart from the pounding of my feet against a pitifully used black road and the light fall of steady, never ending rain against leaves and dirt. Both of them worked as a kind of metronome for me, keeping up the steady, quick pace I was going at.

My muscles began to scream louder as the slanted angle up increased.

I pushed myself further into a run.

A car horn began to go off somewhere in the distance, not doing all that much for my growing migraine. Simultaneously, it reminded me why so many people loved to live in the cities.

Humans are incredibly ignorant creatures.

Finally running out of air, I stopped flat, my joints shrieking desperately at the sudden change of movement. I fell to the wet grass that lay on the edge of the line of pines and oaks, not caring how the dirty water immediately began to soak in through my pants, putting my legs on a rushing fire of ice before quickly numbing off. I highly doubted that it was going to help the frostbite that still remained, but at the moment, I wasn't really concerned much about it.

It hurt too much to care.

My lungs desperately pushed in and out, gaping for more oxygen that the environment seemed prudent in not supplying.

I'm not positive how long I sat there. My mind didn't seem capable of forming any thoughts, much less counting off the minutes that passed. It must have been a good hour though, because when I opened my eyes again and slowly forced myself back from the ground, the dawning sun that had previously been was now full in the sky, as far as I could tell, though sheathed in a mass of churning black clouds.

Tiredly, each step adding to the excruciating pressure of my body, I began the long walk back home, frown deepening as I noticed just how far exactly I had gone. I kicked at a rock, staring down at it as it crashed down into the ditch.

I found another.

I kicked again.

It became a source of entertainment for me. Follow the rock. Pathetic but true. By my fortieth kick, I was rounding the bend that led back to the winding driveway, hands stuffed into my pockets and expression no doubt absolutely as dismal as the weather. Somewhere around my tenth kick, it had began to rain.

Hard.

Splattering my way to the front door of our white mansion—a luxury that made me feel like even more of a spoiled brat than I usually did—I slipped inside, the pounding noise that had worked its' way as a rhythm in my ears immediately falling into a soft background against the roof.

The house stood empty in sleep.

Candles sat flickering by the small stand beside the door. The scent of warm, welcoming vanilla and red apple flooding down into my tight chest, slowly relaxing it.

I pulled my wet shoes off, not bothering to watch where they landed, satisfied by hearing the plunk against the spotless white carpet, though I was careful to make sure they were virtually clear of mud before I let them drop from my hand. Esme's day would no doubt be completely ruined if her hard work for keeping the house clean went unnoticed.

I glanced around the living room, finding it void of any and all possible presences. Figured no one besides me would be a freak enough to get up early on a Saturday.

Carlisle's doctor bag sat abandoned on the coffee table, signaling that he had gotten home in accordance to the ending of his shift. That was rare. He fell into the category of workaholic, and wasn't about to deny the charge anytime soon.

The answering machine's small red light blinked as I walked past it, though absolutely no interest was spiked in me to see who the messages were from. The slightest pique in that had long ago been crushed when Rosalie and Emmett had started dating, along with that relationship being the stalkerish tendencies over the phone that paralleled them both.

Trying to ignore the fact that my legs felt like belts of lead, I slowly trudged my way upstairs, knives stabbing into my flesh with each step. The frames of pictures hanging by nails from the walls cast shadows around me in the already dreary atmosphere, the few candles flickers sitting here and there on different pieces of furniture surrounding the hall making them visible. Blindly, I came to a stop in front of where my room was, fumbling for the knob and no doubt looking like a complete idiot while I was doing so.

I tripped through the suddenly open doorway, the wood that was just under me changing into the soft carpet that I was so familiar with.

It was silent. Not the loud, screaming kind. The dead kind. The kind that fell short of something and nothing.

The dim red glow of my alarm clock shrouded the soft gray walls into a dank horror-like feel.

Heavy black curtains hung loosely—lazily over my overlooking window. It blocked out the sound of water dropping against glass.

I collapsed onto my bed, chest and feet aching, my pulse still continuing to rapidly beat against my temple into a cutting migraine. I could feel my body slowly beginning to shut down, though sleep wasn't something that I wanted to fall back into. I hated sleeping. Hated the dreams. Hated the vulnerability of it all. Hated the need for it.

Instead, I moved to pinch my forearm, nails digging in and slightly puncturing the skin. Small, nearly indecipherable drops of blood dripped down over my fingers as I continued to only increase the pressure of my hand. I couldn't seem to find the incentive to pull back.

My life was turning out to be a fucking mess. One that I couldn't control. One that was going a hundred miles an hour and not even stopping for a cappuccino and donut break along the way. Truth was, I had tried a long time ago to slow down; to save myself from the turbulence of speeding forward at a trillion miles an hour. No such luck. And because of that, it was all starting to crash down on me.

Slowly.

And surely.

With a mildly shaky hand, I took the rarely used silver phone off my bed stand, flipping it open. I scrolled through the list of contacts, until it stopped on Jacob Black.

[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]+[+]

_Esme Cullen had always considered herself an exceptionally lucky person. She had a husband who she adored, and who adored her back; doted on her every need, hand and foot, day and night. Money, for her, left nothing to be wanted. She could look in the mirror, and contrary to so many others in the modern world of the female sex, appreciate what she saw. She had three sons who she'd give her life for. She loved her family. They loved her back. And sometimes, it was impossibly difficult for her to separate the heavens spoken of at church from the reality of her world._

_And sometimes hell would spit back._

_Emmett's sweaty face pushed further into the soft flesh of her breast, his panting heavy as she ran her nimble fingers through his thickly curled brown hair. His muscles trembled slightly as he leaned heavily against her, whether it was from the cold of the room's atmosphere or an effect of the treatments, she wasn't sure._

_Either way, it was a slap on her cheek._

_A floor down, Carlisle was taking his time walking the wide stairway, not on purpose, but too lost in thought to care for speed. Jasper met him halfway down, somewhat surprised. It was an earlier hour than usual for the normally long lasting hospital shift to end._

_Each stopped as Carlisle tilted his head to the side in question._

_Jasper toyed with the beautifully carved banister. "He's not doing so great."_

_A heavy minute passed._

_Carlisle continued up._

_The door of the bathroom hung open, a sort of macabre, rude welcome for him to step in. Hesitantly, he crossed the threshold of his son's eternally dirty, scattered room, moving towards it._

_Esme's face met his as she heard him come to a stop, the tears in her eyes glistening against the harsh light. Her back was against the base of the shower, a towel laying abandoned on the tiles beside her; her perfectly curved frame clad in jeans and a loose t-shirt, Emmett's in sweatpants, bruised torso bare._

_He moved in, the dankness of the small area hitting him head on. Ignoring it, he lithely went over o them, crouching down in front of the two of them. "I called his doctor," she spoke quietly, careful not to jostle the body in her arms as she shifted slightly. "She said that we shouldn't give him anything yet. Not before she hasn't checked him again next week." _

_He sighed heavily, running a hand over his face. "That's what I figured she'd say." Brushing off the sudden rush of disappointment, he reached out, softly tracing his palm over Emmett's head. "Hey Em," he whispered, making a poor attempt to smile._

_He didn't move._

_Worriedly, he turned back to his wife. "I'd be tired too," was all she said, before both of their attention was suddenly drawn back to the subject of conversation. Before either could process what he was doing, he had escaped his mother's careful hold, gripping the toilet seat with clammy hands as coughs erupted from deep within his lungs. His body convulsed slightly as the coughing turned into gagging, then a heavy vomiting—again—his throat automatically tightening with a natural response. He tried to distract himself; think of something other than the vile taste that was continuously filling his mouth. _

_Someone came up behind him, carefully cupping the back of his neck, rubbing gentle circles against his shoulder blade in support. _

_Their hands were too cold._

_Ten tortuous seconds went by._

_Followed by twenty._

_Carlisle watched helplessly as Esme silently excused herself, feeling like he was being punched in the gut with every heave Emmett had. He could do nothing. Nothing but sit and watch. The fact was tearing him apart from the inside out._

_The moment there was a steady silence once more, Emmett collapsed back against him, letting his full weight drop. Used to the routine, Carlisle grabbed the half filled glass sitting by the sink, something that Esme had clearly already been using before his arrival. Not saying anything, he put it to Emmett's lips, who hesitantly took a sip before weakly pushing his hand away, spitting the water back into the toilet, something that seemed to take him more effort than it should have. Using the towel that lay, untouched on the floor, he quickly wiped off his son's jaw, realizing for the first time the heat that was searing through his dress shirt where the younger man's temple lay._

_Not thinking twice, he put his hand against Emmett's forehead, trying to gauge his temperature as best as he could without the help of a thermometer. "You're burning up," he mumbled, to absolutely no one in particular. If Emmett was still conscious enough to make the attempt to understand the words, he failed miserably. _

"_Em…Emmy? You with me?"_

_The answer he got was a moan. "No. Stop talking."_

_Carlisle forced out a chuckle, though the line didn't reach him to heart. The latest occurrence was still too engraved into his short term memory for that. "How's the stomach?"_

"_Empty. Not surprised though. Chemo's a bitch."_

"_Emmett." The quiet chastisement was nothing anywhere near stern. The sympathy choking down at the pit of his throat was too big for any real severity to be behind it. Appropriate language didn't really seem to matter all that much at the moment. He wasn't sure if it'd ever matter all that much again; if it ever did._

"_Sorry." The fragility of the two syllables was like being hit by a brick. Hard. Painful. Unbearable._

"_Let's get you back into bed, alright?"_

_He didn't bother opening his eyes. "Kay."_

_Letting Carlisle half haul, half drag them to the room, he collapsed onto the mattress as soon as he knew it was close enough to catch him, burying himself into the blankets, not truly caring of whether or not he suffocated._

_He rolled slightly as Carlisle laid down beside him, his weight pulling against gravity. An arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, as another slipped beneath his neck, serving for a harder than usual, and yet more comfortable, surrogate pillow. Lips pressed against his temple in a soft kiss for a few long moments before pulling back slightly, though close enough still for him to feel the warm breath washing over him. "How're you feeling?"_

_Emmett groaned in response, burrowing into his father's side in a response that was quickly becoming habit. "Wonderful."_

"_Em," Carlisle murmured, "tell me the truth."_

_He just nuzzled further against his shoulder. "I'm fine. Honest." His fingers dug tightly into the blanket. "'s nothing new. I'm used to it." He wasn't sure whether or not it was the full truth. It wasn't new, no. It was the matched routine they went through every time a foreign poison was injected into his body. But if he'd ever get used to it was still a question that was forever lingering above him._

_A couple loose strands of hair blew slightly as Carlisle sighed, tightening his firm grip. The nausea, the vomiting, the dizziness, the headaches, the sleepless nights, the high fevers, the blurred vision and fatigue and lack of appetite and weight loss; it was something that they were all getting used to for a second time in their lives. It was a nightmare that had constantly hung over them light a hangman's noose to a prisoner on death row._

_Death row wasn't a place that they wanted to be._

_Emmett trembled slightly as another harsh, hacking cough came over him, every last inch of him dowsed in soreness. Carlisle rubbed his thumb against the small of his back, massaging in a hopeful attempt to ease some of the pain. "You're okay," he whispered. "You're okay." Maybe it was to convince the other._

_Maybe it was to convince himself._

_Emmett went limp against him. Dead weight. Nothing more. "Sorry." He hated it. Hated how pitifully _weak_ he was. It was doing nothing short of driving him mad. Being a prisoner towards himself was never something that he really cherished all that much. _

_And he wanted out._

_"Don't you dare apologize."_

_Esme's return drew his notice, a small bowl in her hands. As soon as a quiet settled once more, her hesitant voice rang through the thick air. "I made some broth." It was all she was willing to say._

_Carlisle turned back to his son, leaning down. "Em," he softly crooned. He didn't continue until he had opened his eyes. "I want you to try to have some, alright?"_

_He feebly shook his head, drained of energy to do anything more than that. "I won't be able to keep it down Dad." The voice was hoarse. Scratchy. _

_Dad. Any other day—every other day—he'd start grinning like an idiot at hearing the name. Now though, it made his gut sink. He was a father. A father was supposed to protect his child from anything that tried to hurt them. And he was failing. "I want you to try though Em. We need to get some fluids in you." He wavered. "Otherwise I'm not going to have a choice; I'll need to take you into the hospital for an IV."_

_He took his time answering. "That's a low blow." He hated hospitals with passion, and everybody knew it._

_Too many bad memories._

_Too many sources of horror for him._

_Too many everything._

"_Come on," he murmured, pulling Emmett up with him as he went, keeping him tightly tucked against him. Esme moved forward, sitting next to them. _

"_Come on sweetheart," she lovingly repeated her husband's words, stirring the liquid by the spoon in her hand._

* * *

A/N: So…for those of you who actually do read author's notes, I've a few things to bring up:

1. A million apologies for taking this long to update. I know that there's absolutely no vehement excuse for doing so, but for those of you who'd like to pity me, three out of four members of my household (myself not included) came down with the flu, one of which ended up in the hospital. I kind of had a lot more chores than usual to get to. Pity me.

2. Some of you may had been reading one or more of my other stories, and know I haven't been keeping up with them very well. So, to quench curiosity, here's what's going on with them: I don't know. As of now, they're on a temporary sort of hiatus, though I could still add a chapter or two any time. The reason that I'm saying they're being put on hold for now is to not get anyone's hopes up, and have all of you wonderful people just waiting in the dark, expecting me to get off my lazy streak and write anytime soon. That may or may not happen.

3. As for this story, I'll be sticking with it, and trying to get it going again as soon as humanly possible. And excuse me if the whole process that I just showed Emmett going through isn't an experience you think is fully accurate to your own experiences. I've discovered through the years that every reaction to every different disease and treatment is different, but if you think I missed anything key, please let me know. :)

And good 'ole 4. I am currently looking for a beta for this here story. I would just put my name up in the whole 'beta lookout' engine, but I'd really like someone who I know at least somewhat (for some reason I can't quite comprehend) enjoys my writing, and is willing to stick with me for a while. If you think that you'd be at all interested, let me know. If not, I'll keep trekking through this one on my own.

Love you all a million! XOXOXOXOX


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter IV**

_Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth._ _~John 3:18_

_He kept his eyes on the sidewalk as he made the trek home from kindergarten. It felt wrong to look up. It felt wrong to see where he was—to make eye contact with the drivers of the cars who were rushing by. Then you had to smile. Not a real one. A fake one. A polite one._

_Jasper didn't like smiling._

_It was too hard._

_Too foreign._

_His worn, holed shoes kicked at a small rock in front of him, the only incentive he had to keep going. _

_The sun blazed on brightly above him. Too brightly. It seared into his body; burned his exposed neck. He felt his skin peeling in an angry sort of red fire. The back of his hand, holding tightly onto the single strap of his broken school bag, had already begun to turn a dark pink, cracking at his knuckles. _

_He pulled the sleeves of his sweater further down, shifting uncomfortably under the scratchy wool. He liked that sweater. His grandmother had made it for him, just months before she had died from a heavy heart attack. But she had lived in Wisconsin. It had never dawned on her that Texas had a different climate._

_He didn't care though. She made it for him. That made him love it._

_Familiar with the pattern of the cement, he turned up into the short driveway of his shack of a home, slowing his pace as he got further towards the back door. The grass of the small yard was too short—yellow or browning, what was there anyway. Mostly it was gravel, small chunks of metal from the cars his father had worked on scattered over the surface of it. _

_Digging through the pocket of his loose fitting jeans, he wrapped his small fingers around the keys, shoving it into the doorknob and pushing it open, shutting it behind him with a bang._

_The kitchen was dirty. Dirty floor. Dirty table. Dirty counters. Dirty dishes piling up in a dirty sink. And it was small. Obviously low-income. Never really mattered much to Jasper though. It was all he knew. All the small elements that made up his hollowed life. _

_The only life he knew._

_He flipped on the light switch, the single, shade-less bulb quickly illuminating, the one-windowed room suddenly becoming easier to see. Not that he wanted it to be easier to see. Not that he wanted anything in particular. Not that he had the luxury of knowing what he wanted; knowing what he liked._

_A siren went off somewhere in the distance, the shrill noise piercing through his ears. _

_He drowned it out. Something he was used to. _

_Pushing up his sleeves, which fell far below where they would have normally ended, he slowly served himself a glass of water, the cup he used cracked—jagged at a part of the top from where it had been dropped once. Most every other glass matched it. They had got them at Goodwill once, when he was still a toddler._

_Walking up to the old round table, Jasper slowly glanced at the mail, trying to pick out the words that he knew. He liked reading. A lot. He took advantage of it whenever he got the chance, though it was rare and in between. Most of the envelopes he recognized; taxes. Long overdue bills. Final notices. The three channels they got. The electric bill. The plumbing. The same mail that they always got._

_Carefully, he set out the right number of pills for his father, before heading over to the living room, and then falling down to the couch in fatigue._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_It was late. Dark. Someone was sitting next to him—breathing. Heavily. He could smell the alcohol in the air. Beer. Something else. Smoke. From marijuana? It was something he recognized from somewhere else._

_He quietly cleared his throat. "Daddy?" _

_Nobody answered._

"_Daddy?"_

"_Jazz." His father's voice was slurred, gruffer than it usually was. He was used to his father coming home drunk. It just wasn't as common that he'd talk. He didn't like talking. "Jazzy boy," he half laughed, seeming to have heard some inaudible joke, "you know what day it is?"_

_Jasper swallowed deeply, hesitantly shaking his head, though he knew it was a useless movement; it was too black in the house to see anything. "No sir."_

_It only seemed to increase the fit of humor that had taken over him. "'S the fifth."_

_It hit him like a bullet. His birthday._

"_You killed your mother today Jasper. You remember that?"_

_He swallowed again. He hated his birthday. It reminded him that he was a murderer. "I'm sorry Daddy."_

"_Sorry?" Another chuckle, this time less lively than the others had been. In half a second, it stopped, replaced with a yelp as he reached out, striking Jasper across the street, his ring digging into the skin of his cheek. He felt the familiar burning, the tears welling up in his eyes. He was glad no one could see it. It'd only be worse if his father knew just how weak he was. "You think that a sorry's gonna bring her back then, do you?"_

_He choked. "No sir."_

_Another hard strike hit him across the face, knocking him back down onto the hard cushion. _

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_He locked him in the basement closet. Basement was small. Closet was smaller. Two square feet. _

_Jasper was claustrophobic._

_It was dark._

_The second day he had to urinate. It attracted the cockroaches._

_Third day he vomited from the vertigo of the small space. He fell unconscious. All he could concentrate on was the thirst._

_Fourth day the police arrived._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Gordon and Erin Chrisely. They were a nice enough couple. Young. Just married for three years, and still somewhat blind to the challenges of the real world that all children are blocked from in the formation of their first stretch of life. Maybe that's what caused the overconfidence in them; the thought that they could keep up with five newly adopted children. _

_Erin was a teacher. She loved dealing with the fresh generations that every year had to bring. She had always just assumed that raising a family of her own would work the same way. She had never expected that it would be any harder than taking attendance and directing English class to the first graders. Bullies on the recess playground. It was the only challenge that she thought she'd ever have to face in her line of career._

_Gordon? Jasper wasn't sure what he did. He went somewhere. He had a strict schedule that he followed. He was from somewhere in New York. He didn't have the natural relaxation that Jasper—as a Texan, a native to the South—tended to have. For him, it was one big mesh of a rush. Everything was too slow. Everything diminished his pace. Including the fosters that he was harboring. Jasper never got to know him all that well. Jasper never much cared._

_They lasted for a month. That was all they could handle. They kept three. The other two had to go. _

_That was the end of the first family._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_One was too young. Two was too old._

_He was never sure as to what he was supposed to call them. They reminded him of grandparents; the ones you saw in Werther's Candies commercials. They told him Lorraine and George. Mr. and Mrs. Linchester seemed to better fit for him. Sir and Ma'am was what usually came the most naturally, without thought. _

_He wasn't their first. They knew better as to what they were doing._

_He liked it there. They were both retired. It was the first time anyone had paid attention to him. He wasn't sure if he liked it or not. _

_Lorraine had a heart attack. She died three days later._

_George couldn't do it. He did everything he could to cope with the recent turn of events. His daughter moved in. She was nice. Always cooking like her mother before her had. Always making sure that the kitchen smelled of peanut butter cookies and fresh toffee. She brought cheer into her father's eyes, every time he walked into the room._

_Not enough._

_He gave up on joy._

_That was the end of family number two._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Her name was Grace. It didn't fit her. Leastways not in his own opinion. _

_She just wanted the extra money._

_She didn't want him._

_Hit him. _

_Kicked him. _

_Called him a freak. A worthless piece of shit. _

_He didn't like her much. _

_He tried staying away from her._

_He only stayed with her for two weeks._

_Then the social worker came._

_That was the end of family number three._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Mr. and Mrs. Saroyan. That was what the others called them. He didn't. He never talked. _

_They put up pictures on the fireplace mantle. Happy ones. Sunny ones. Ones with smiling children in fresh Sunday clothes and dimples on their warm cheeks. _

_Lies. _

_All of it._

_They'd give out breakfast. Slices of bread. Then they'd go back to their rooms. One room for the boys. Another for the girls. There were two beds in each one. They'd take turns._

_They'd feed all of them with dog food. That's what came the cheapest._

_They'd walk to school together. They'd fake a pleasant life together. They'd keep each other safe. Jasper decided he liked having siblings._

_Nothing good ever lasts._

_Ever._

_They got tired of Jasper. Wanted someone else. After three months, they decided to trade him in._

_That was the end of family number four._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Cathy and Anne. Sisters. Lived together in San Angelo. They were old. Faces were wrinkled. Always looked cheerful, in good spirits. Never were._

_The rooms were all kept locked. The fridge was locked. The cupboards were locked. The windows were locked. _

_There were so many bugs. Climbing over everything. _

_The food._

_His skin._

_They used a ruler for everything he did. He made the mistake of asking to go to the bathroom from the dinner table._

_He learned to never ask for anything after that first time._

_He dropped a vase once. Didn't mean to. Someone knocked into him when he was holding it._

_They starved him._

_They didn't want him anymore._

_That was the end of family number five._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Rick and Julia. Julia didn't talk. Just cooked. Cleaned. Pulled the constant weeds of the flower box by the window. _

_Rick yelled. Screamed. Swore. At Julia. At Jasper. At the dog. At everything. He smoked. He never stopped smoking. _

_He'd call Jasper into his room._

_Take his pants off._

_Take Jasper's pants off._

_Touch him._

_Make him kneel and hold his mouth open._

_Every day._

_Four months._

_Jasper ran._

_That was the end of family number six._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_He was seven when they found him on the street. _

_They weren't huge. Just a few of them. Tony. Rafael. Miguel. Ray. Leonardo. _

_Small in their own group. The Dixie Mafia was big._

_They figured he'd be useful to them. He was young. Innocent. Police weren't about to pull him over like they might anyone of them. So he became their drug runner. Mostly coke. Sometimes moonshine. All depended on what'd come in the greatest amounts. Didn't care much about quality. So long as they could get the same high, the cheap shit worked for them. Most of it was from Mexico. He went and got it. Brought it back. Got to stay with them. They kept him safe._

_He became one of them._

_It was dark out. He had it. Fresh. In his bag. He was walking back to the alley they met at—the one they always met at. He didn't see them until he was on the ground, and they had pulled it out of his hands. Couldn't remember much. Just that his vision blurred. And the concrete was too cold. They left. He fell asleep._

_That's where they found him._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

"_Honey, you've got to eat something." She was holding the offensive hospital tray in front him, in what was supposed to be interpreted as a tempting gesture. Leastways, that's what he thought she meant by it. But the smell of the red jello and pizza, mixed in with the citrus of orange slices made his stomach clench in disgust, the idea of having to taste any of it utterly repulsive. _

_Didn't say that. Just clenched his face and curled into a tighter ball, body shaking slightly in pain and fear. He didn't want to be here. They'd send him back._

_Anna gave a sigh of exhaustion, the nursing uniform that she was wearing falling further over her shoulders as she stared at the boy across from her, his huddled, trembling form. The absolute need to touch him spiked against the back of her neck once more, and once more, she pushed it down. The want to reach out and push away the blond curls that were falling over his face was lightly fluttering through her mind, though she resisted. He looked like he'd crumble under her finger if she ever did such a thing. _

"_Sweetheart," she repeated quietly, playing with the edge of a napkin, crumpling it up and straightening it out again. "Come on. Just try some, huh? You'd like it. My daughter works down in the kitchen. You'll hurt her feelings if you don't give it even a try."_

_It was a weak attempt at humor. She wasn't even sure why she bothered with making the effort; just that she had to make him more relaxed. It was killing her to see him in so much distress._

_His blue eyes were huge, staring down at the sheets of the hospital bed he was lithely perched on, hard from the mounds of starch added to it. There were tears in them. His arms—thin beyond belief, under the all too big gown—were wrapped tightly around his bent legs. The complete desolation of the image was a torture._

"_Well," she restarted, endeavoring to make her voice light, "I suppose that if you're not quite hungry now, that we can always get you something else again a little later. I hear that cake's on the menu for dinner tonight." She ducked her head down at him, trying to meet his gaze. "You like cake hon?"_

_If she had been expecting a response from her silent interviewee, she was setting herself up for disappointment, because she got absolutely none._

"_Anna?" The sound of her name startled her, and she spun quickly around, finding Dr. Cullen standing in the doorway of the room. His pale face glanced kindly over to her, lips pulling up slightly in a welcoming gesture to her curious expression, hands pushing down into the pants pockets of the scrubs he was sheathed in. "Aaron was asking for you. He needed a little help with a woman who was just brought in. ER, twenty fourth curtain."_

_Understanding the look written over him, she nodded without argument, walking from the room without a second word, tray still in hand. _

_After watching her leave through the door, he turned back to his patient, with a warm gait slowly making his way over to his side. Cautious to make his actions known, he sat down into one of the three chairs surrounding the bed, leaning forward and folding his hands neatly in front of his knees. _

_He smiled over at him, though he wanted nothing more than to cry. He was underweight, that one was more than obvious. He was heavily bruised; scratched. Covered in stitches, black eye blocking out a good majority of his features, shrouding it in an angry blue. The full horror was by far what kicked him the hardest. Horror made him the bad guy. That wasn't what he wanted. "You gave us all quite a scare young man," he chided softly, making sure the sound was laced in a humor. It didn't seem to make a difference in the end, however. He flinched away nonetheless. _

_Carlisle leaned forward more, being careful to not push the space between them too far. "My name's Carlisle," he imposed in a quiet undertone. "I'd really like to know yours." _

_The small boy scooted indecipherably further away from him, tightening the hold he had, cradling his own body, white of the cast on his wrist matching in hue with the pale of his broken skin. _

_Sighing, Carlisle fought back the disappointment, knowing that it was only to be expected, with the little progress that Anna had been making before. "Would you mind if I checked to make sure you're doing okay? I'll be real quick, promise." _

_The other hesitated for a long moment, seeming to run through his mind the risks of giving his permission. Apparently, nothing was too grave that he wouldn't be able to live with the consequences, because soon enough, Carlisle was relieved to see the small, petrified nod._

_Pleased at the positive signal, no matter how small the meaning of it was, he pulled the stethoscope from his neck, cautiously moving up to sit beside him on the stiff mattress surface. Gradually, he shifted over until he was close enough to touch him, moving slightly so that he was behind him. Making his actions known, he reached out, undoing the first few top buttons of the gown, pushing the thin cloth apart, revealing the shoulder blades of his back, thickly covered in abrasions. Ignoring the way he recoiled away from him, he gently placed his hand on his shoulder, holding him in place as he carefully placed the hearing piece against him. _

"_Can you breathe deeply?" He did as he was told, filling his lungs before letting it out in a gust of air. "Good job," Carlisle cooed in approval, repeating the same action a few times before replacing the stethoscope back into its original position. Reaching around, Carlisle felt his neck, inching away as soon as he was assured that nothing was out of place. "Go ahead and lay back for me, alright?" _

_He hesitated more than the last time, though at last, began to uncurl from his closed position, ever so slightly at a time leaning further down, until his body was flat in front of Carlisle. _

"_That's it," he congratulated once more, pulling one of the extra blankets folded on the side table towards him, waving it out and draping it out over his patient's legs, adjusting it up to his waist. "Hang in there for a bit." The sentence served as his warning, before he began to pull the gown from beneath the small frame, tugging it away until it was fully out of the way from his torso. The boy recoiled slightly from being put in such a vulnerable state, undressed to such an extent. Carlisle backed his hands away for a few seconds, giving him time to calm slightly before once again returning full attention. "I want you to let me know if anything hurts at all. Even if it's just small, I need to know, okay?"_

_He took the empty void as an answer in the affirmative. Once again, in extreme gentleness, he put his hands on the concave stomach, pressing ever so slightly on one of the many bruises. Briefly glancing up to confirm that it hadn't hurt him at all, he continued on, massaging his fingers deeply against him, making sure that nothing was swelled at all; nothing was internally damaged. _

"_It's pretty dark in this room, isn't it? You must be getting bored." It was the first time he had noticed the heavy shades of the windows, dowsing out the sun. The muted, miniscule TV in the corner was full of static, playing on a news station. "Things are kind of slow around here. I could take you for a walk outside it you wanted, though I suppose with that sprained ankle, we'll need to get a wheelchair for you first. I'm sure there's one lying around here somewhere."_

"_No thank you sir."_

_Carlisle couldn't help but freeze in his once over examination, the soft, accented whisper one of the last things he had been expecting to hear. The voice was too pain-filled, too broken, than the carefree ring of a child that should have sung out in its place. No. That sound should have been saved for the adults, who could handle the woes of the world on their shoulders. The set up in this was all wrong._

_He pushed it back, regaining his senses, and looking down at the boy below him. His face was turned away from the doctor, staring blankly at the flower-decorated wall. Every hospital wall looked the same._

_Flowers. Clean. Sterile._

_It made him nauseous._

"_Alright," he conceded, the idea he had been having of strolling through the park outside, getting closer, gaining his trust, crashing down on him. He slipped his hands just below the sheet, pressing against the lymph nodes of the boy's groin, before pulling back, starting to redress him. "But if you change your mind, I want you to call a nurse in to page me. If you need anything. At all. Deal?"_

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Esme was good at baking. More importantly, she enjoyed it. It was a weekend activity for her, to make cookies, and bring them to the hospital. Some people there looked like they needed it; needed to know that someone was out there that cared. That day was no different. Peanut butter. Still warm from the oven, the ice cream bucket they were in trapping some of the heat, though not the heavenly smell that was coming from them._

_That day, she brought them to the hospital. Shared._

_That's where she met him._

_.x.x.x.x.x._

_Three days had passed, until the police had gotten hold of the information they had been looking for. Last seen by Rick and Julia DeMoyer, February 2, 1996. Missing for twelve weeks. Runaway, as far as anybody knew. No note. No goodbye. No trace._

_When Carlisle started walking up to his room, shoes hitting the floor in greater intervals than what was normal for him, he debated as to how to open the conversation. They hadn't come very far. Their relationship—the relationship he had with everybody—was dejected lamb and ravenous, greedy wolf. He was afraid of everybody, everything. Besides that one sentence of rejection, he never spoke to any of them._

_He had healed, making an almost full recovery. He would have been free to leave a while ago, if he had had anywhere to go._

_He didn't._

"_Jasper." It was the first time that Carlisle was able to say his name. It feel easily off his lips. Naturally. Like it was meant to be there. _

_The blond turned from watching, fascinated, the wilted rose shedding its petals beside him to look at the man who had called out to him._

"_Jasper, there's a very nice woman downstairs, who came to see you. She's from the police station." _

_Before either could process the actions, Jasper was ripping off the heart monitors from his chest, tearing the IV needle out of him before Carlisle could stop him. He jumped off the bed in more energy than anyone had seen in him, ignoring the rush of pain from his ankle and leg as he did so, the rush of blood flooding through his body from finally standing dizzying him. _

_He ran._

_Carlisle felt numb as the distant nine year old, who had recoiled away from him until now, flung himself into his arms, grabbing tightly at his clothes and burying his face into his shirt. It was an automatic response, being a father of two, when Carlisle responded by pulling him closer as Jasper's legs wrapped around his body._

_The bundle he was cradling to his chest was shaking._

_Sobbing._

"_Don't make me go. Please don't let them take me back."_

"_Shh." He pushed the cold forehead beneath his chin. "I won't."_

* * *

A/N: Yeah...this one didn't turn out very good, I know. But hey, it was a fast update, right? I felt like I owed you all for that long stretch of nothingness. Oh well. I tried. Love ya! :)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter V**

_A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for adversity.__ ~Proverbs 17:17_

**Edward**

The one thing that I have a hard time understanding is why people say that things happen for a reason. What if there is no reason? What if it's all just some joke that fate intricately designed for its own amusement? No; I could never believe that the things that had happened to me before were all for something bigger. I wanted to, yes. More than anything, I wanted to say that there was a reason behind my parent's deaths, and that something better than myself was in control of it. I wanted to say that something good would eventually come out of the fact that I'd never see so much as a shadow again in my life.

But what if it's just like that? No reason at all. No purpose. It just is.

I really don't know anymore. I've heard of people who went out for a camping trip or something stupid like that, and get a huge revelation of the universe and everything all of a sudden just becomes clear in the middle of a forest that's in the middle of nowhere. Hasn't happened to me though, so we're back to where we began.

When I was little, and my dad was late from coming home from work, my mom would sit with me by the front window. She'd take out her small jewelry box—the one that I was always afraid to touch because it was so perfect—and hold it in front of me. Then she'd tell me about all the hopes and dreams my dad had put in that box, all so that he could have a family. By the time he finally arrived, he'd look like a hero to me and the only thing I wanted to do was run up and hug him. Thinking back though, I guess that was her plan. Moms are usually smart that way.

When Carlisle and Esme first took in Jasper, they asked me to share a room with him until they could figure out something else than just a dusty spider-filled guestroom. Every single night he'd talk in his sleep. Not his normal, laconic voice. He'd scream. Beg for mercy, and for whoever to stop whatever whoever was doing, and start to cry. At first, I tried waking him up. After that, I'd just wait it out. You knew it was over when he gave one final, pathetic whimper and curled into a ball. Then he'd just go quiet again. I never knew his story, or anything that happened to him; just that his dad was still alive, as far as any of us knew.

But that first time I woke him up, I told him that it was all going to be okay; that his dad would come back for him soon.

He'd just start crying again, and I'd wonder what my mom would say to that.

The idea of happily ever after had always seemed overrated to me. Overrated, and unachievable. Being happy sounded like an incredibly stupid goal in life; it'd get dull after the first few days, leastways in my opinion. A smiling face looking back at you in the mirror was an image that had been painted over and over in my mind by adults I had trusted—teachers, parents, strange men one might meet on MySpace who told you they could give it—they all wanted the same end for me and my story. They wanted a cheerful _the end_ with me in the front pew and Pandora's Box back in the nosebleed seats. But the entire concept of having that storybook life never flied well with what I imagined things should be.

My world was dark—an abyss of mystery filled with dangers and triumphs that I'd never get to see with my own, unworkable eyes. Happily ever after? It was unreachable; too far away to touch but too close that everyone around me believed in it with the upmost faith. But to me? Nothing more than a scheme of impossibilities for my young but already gruesome-turning life. It wasn't going to happen.

Then Isabella Swan happened.

**Bella**

One time, when I was nine, just after I had taken the long trip back to Forks, this time for a permanent endeavor, Charlie convinced me to go fishing with him. Not only did I put several hooks through his clothes, but at the end of the trip, I ended up slipping on a loose rope of the dock and falling in the water. It had become one of my worst childhood memories. Ironic, that fishing would also be linked to one of my best.

A clear line could be drawn between me and my new classmates that year, as would be similar to the years that would soon follow. They liked me enough, sure. I could fit in when I wanted to, and easily hide and blend in with their group. Jessica, Angela, Eric—they all accepted me and welcomed the new girl with open arms. Grabbed at her, even, like sharks that had been starved for years at a time.

My fourth day of school, we were taking a field trip up to La Push, to the beach there. The science teachers all thought it would be fun, to catch our own victims to study in the classroom. I was never particularly good at anything that involved nature, leastways when it came to the slimy stuff that stared at you; but to hand me something sharp and letting me go seemed like an even worse idea. They handed me a bucket of worms, and the poor souls having not gotten to know me very well yet seemed to trust me to go out onto the slippery landing with that and several rods. Halfway out on the dock, I tripped. Worms went into the water, but luckily the equipment stayed safe enough.

While I was recovering from the traumatic experience of nearly falling headfirst into the mucky water, a thought that was far from pleasant to me, new from dry and clean Arizona, Edward was picking up my mess.

That was the first time we met.

That was the first day of my life that I had ever really _lived_.

And if Charlie walked into my room, today was going to be the day I died.

It looked a lot worse than it actually was in reality. The bed sheets, tangled as they were, were only a result of the fact that I dream a lot and therefore move, and nothing more. And the scattered clothes littering my room, a mixture of mine and his, were nothing more but saving the very valuable water of Earth. I was going to do laundry anyway, so he might as well have let me washed his dirty gym wardrobe. The boxers were just a part of it. The condom on the floor, opened, by the way, wasn't actually used. Just a leftover from health class that happened to have dropped from the shelf of my locker and into my backpack. The flawlessly beautiful god, sitting in my corner rocking chair, was nothing more than a matter of luck, pure and simple. Charlie couldn't blame me for that.

I kind of enjoyed the whole concept of happily ever after.

**Jasper**

My lungs felt like they were on fire, my muscles completely engulfed in flames, but I didn't bother stopping. Stopping just made it worse. Instead, I pushed myself faster, kicking sand up into the air behind me and very probably Jake's face from where he was trailing me. Sweat dripped down my neck, meshing in with the salty ocean water that had been collecting there for awhile.

La Push beach. The beautiful thing about the place was its lack of overpopulation. Tourists didn't come to take pictures at shores that were stormy nine out of ten days, and didn't bother swimming in water with undercurrents that could pull you down in seconds and freeze you in less. Aside from the occasional toddlers who wanted to collect a few colorful rocks, and the adrenaline junkies who got their fix from diving off the cliffs, the place was usually deserted.

This is where we came to run, and in turn, this is where we came to get away.

"I vote for a break." Smirking, I toned down to a jog, finding a broken log to go over to and dropped down on it. Jake was slower, walking over in a breathless daze and crashing a few feet away onto the ground, not bothering to reach the wood. "Uncle."

I laughed quietly at his exhausted face, combing a hand through my hair. "Wasn't a race."

"Everything's a race with you." The muttered sentence was pathetically weak, his chest still rising quickly and falling even faster, arms spread out above him in surrender. "I give up."

"Join the club, we've got free shirts."

My voice must have been dismal enough for interest, because the next thing I knew he looked up at me, brows raised and smirk vanishing. "You've got to tell them soon."

I scowled at him, but didn't say anything.

"I'm serious man." He hesitated a moment, rolling from his back onto his stomach and moving his fingers through the clumped sand before him. "You could get hurt."

Jake knew it all; he knew about the panic attacks, the insomnia, the occasional burning when it got to be just too fucking much, and how when my mind lingered on the pills I kept stuffed under my mattress, I'd take just enough morphine from Carlisle's bag that he wouldn't notice it was gone. Jake knew how messed up I was, and how pathetic it had all become for me. But even Jake couldn't make it go away all the time. And sometimes he just made it worse.

"You should talk to your dad." I grimaced at the statement, annoyed at how sure he sounded.

"You should go choke on a poison apple, but I don't complain."

"You're complaining now, and that's not the point."

My knuckles cracked slightly as I pounded my fist into the open and awaiting palm, hating how he always managed to bring up the exact topics that I full-heartedly tried to avoid. Instead of telling him, I just gritted my teeth together, producing that horrible sound that can make squeamish people flinch. "There's nothing to talk to my dad about, so it's besides the point."

He stared at me, gaze following every twitch I made and categorizing it to his memory. It made me nervous sometimes, how critical he could become, and how much he could see that you didn't want him to. He was easy going, sure, but then he could also be the opposite when he wanted. "You had another panic attack yesterday when we were on the phone." I dropped my gaze, suddenly feeling stripped and openly exposed at my lack of response. "If you keep letting that happen, it's going to get out of control."

"Drop it Jake. Just drop it."

He stood up, moving to sit down on the log and dig his heel in beneath a rock. "Your dad's cool you know." He cleared his throat, a pitiful attempt to lower the sudden tension. "I've seen you two in the same room before. He worries about you, I can tell."

I folded my arms, staring out at the water for a long moment. Letting out a sigh and swallowing deeply, I tried to ignore what he was saying. "Carlisle worries about everyone."

It was true, too. Carlisle was worse than Esme in some regards, leastways when it came to more personal things. It was saying something—I had thought that it was impossible to worry more than her.

I could feel Jacob steadily losing his patience from where he was lithely situated, flicking at the bark and peeling it off with his fingernail. "What don't you understand?" he eventually whispered, though it was more to himself than it was ever meant for me. "Don't you get that you need help? It's just…it's wrong. It's unhealthy."

"Fuck off and leave me alone."

It was the wrong thing to say, because the next thing I knew he was seething, having an internal debate on whether or not to just punch me and get it out of his system. Apparently, he opted on the more peaceful route, lowering his voice and glaring at nothing in particular. "One day he's going to find out that you burn yourself, and it would be a hell of a lot easier on everybody if you just came clean and told him yourself."

"It doesn't matter. It's none of your business, anyway."

"Someone's going to ask why you never wear short sleeves, and you won't have anything to say. Or he'll figure out that some of his morphine's missing and he'll ask you about it." He scrutinized me. "He's not stupid. He'll figure it out eventually."

"I'm not a druggie," I mumbled, the only defense that I could come up with short notice. "I just need it sometimes, that's all. I don't take that much."

He snorted. "You take enough. And you wouldn't have to take any if you just told them about the panic attacks and let them get you some actual medicine. Meds that would help, not just make the whole thing worse. He's a doctor. He'd understand."

I didn't bother explaining that I had played that out a million times before. Each one ended in my going to a therapist, and ruining everything that I had built up. Everything. That wasn't something that I was willing to do, no matter how much it would occasionally tempt me. Certain things were meant to be left out of the question. "I can't do it. Besides, I haven't taken anything in weeks. It's not that bad." So goes high school life, anyway. It was supposed to suck.

"Whatever."

He pushed himself up and began to walk back in the direction we came, following the tracks that were splayed down from us before.

Giving up, I shadowed behind, trying to ignore everything he had just attempted to feed me. I didn't want to remember any of it.

.x.x.x.x.x.

The red shed was small, falling apart, frames bent at odd angles and nails sticking out at the least expected places. Jacob's metal instruments were strewn around it, a motorcycle sitting in the midst of it all.

You can't possibly comprehend the humiliation of being male and yet incapable of naming the type of bike right in front of you.

Lingering by the door for a second longer than necessary, I walked in, waving slightly to Quil and Embry as they continued on in their conversation and finding a seat on a knocked over truck wheel on the concrete slab of floor.

It was somehow comforting to listen to the others nonsensically prattle off to one another. All three of them were lighthearted; optimistic and spontaneous in every sense of the words, and never letting anything effect them. To a point I envied how easily they took everything. Still, no matter the sufferings I went through to mimic them, I could never learn to do it.

Quil chucked something at Jake's head, narrowly missing as Embry continued to shake in silent mirth. "I do not have a thing with Leah, alright? I feel bad enough for Seth that he has to put up with her."

Jake threw him a wide grin, retrieving the screwdriver that had been aimed his way and replacing it on a wooden shelf piled in what I could only assume were important workshop materials. "I've seen how you act around her. You get nervous."

Embry opened chuckled, fist pumping Jake before resting on a solemn look which he gave to his friend. "Don't blame the poor boy. It's just those teenage hormones. You know how they can be."

The next second, some pliers propelling past him as Quil glowered, watching as the two erupted into a fit of mirth. All I could do was try to appear smaller than I was, deciding it unsafe to have his rage and fury in my line of general direction.

Embry ruined it.

Turning to me, now more sober than before, he cheerfully went about his work on the engine he was helping with. "You ever met Leah Clearwater Jasper?"

Smiling, I shook my head, glancing down at the Coke in my grasp. "Don't think I'd really want to though, from what you make her out to be."

Jake groaned, punching him in the shoulder. "We're not going over to the Clearwater's just so we can see Leah. She'd be pissed enough to see us as it was, Jasper wouldn't want to meet her then." He looked at me. "Or ever, for that matter."

"Give it a rest Jake. I was just going to say that he'd have a chance to see her at the bonfire tomorrow, if he wanted to come."

Quil joined in, apparently having forgiven the others and regained his normally happy state. "You really should Cullen. The fire's are fun, even if they are meant more for the tribal elders than anyone else. The legends they tell there are all pretty dumb and stuff, but they've got really good food, and most of our friends from around the rez would be there. You'd get along with them well enough."

I bit my lip, loathing with passion how all eyes were now focused on me. "I'm not sure. If it's only meant for members of the tribe—"

"They won't kick you out just because you're not a Quileute Jasper," Jake interrupted, turning his focus once more back to the front part of the bike. "Besides, apart from Leah, you'd like everyone else. And the stories are kind of sweet, especially the first time you hear them."

I nodded uncertainly. "I guess I could ask my parents if I could. They'll probably say yes."

Quil smiled. "I'll grab you a spot. But don't show up too late—the hotdogs get snagged quickly."

**Emmett**

October 4, a few weeks after my eighth birthday, I fell off a swing set at a park and broke my arm. I think Esme was panicking more than I was, which she's kind of good at, but by the time we got to the ER, the adrenaline numbness began to wear off, and it _fucking hurt_. Sitting uncomfortably on my cot and balling, this new intern nurse came up to drug me to the legal limits to get me to shut up. And then she said one of the most stupid things that I had ever heard.

"_If there was never any bad times, there'd never be any good."_

I was eight. What the hell would I care about that?

It stuck well enough though, even began making sense later on. Must've, if I still remember it ten years later. Now, it didn't really matter all that much. No one wants to hear that good times are just around the corner when they're stuck in a freeze frame of pain at the moment.

I was coughing. Hard. My face was buried into my pillow, trying to muffle the sound from the rest of the house but failing miserably. Didn't really matter much though, did it? The place was big enough; it would easily pass for being called a mansion by the average person. So long as the walls weren't thin and their hearing wasn't miraculously exceptional.

My throat burned, and when I pulled back, there was a deep scarlet staining the previously spotless white. It wasn't the first time I had coughed up blood. The first a few weeks ago, I freaked out a bit. Now it didn't really matter to me anymore. At some point between then and now, I began too tired to care. All I did was flip my pillow over to a clean side and pretend it never happened.

Slowly, I rolled off my bed, making my way over towards the bathroom while simultaneously attempting not the trip on any of the variety of items that littered the floor. When I made it to the sink, my desperate, pathetic panting had stopped and I had managed to catch my breath again. Even after I rinsed my mouth out, the taste of dead rust was potent, destroying the dwindling hopes of falling back to sleep.

Flipping the light to my room on, I dropped down beside the remote, pushing life back into the TV and lowering the volume to the minimum. The channels went by quickly, and eventually I settled to just gawk at some Law and Order and fake being interested in whatever the crime was now. The benefit of the show is that each and every episode was the same—the characters, plot, settings. The only thing that ever changed were names and dates. It wasn't too horribly complex to follow.

Somewhere between the beginning and end, there was a soft knock on my door, and then Edward was there, tripping over my crap trying to get over to a safe landing place. Finally though, he fell down to the mattress beside me, quiet for a long minute.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself."

He turned his head in my direction, frowning slightly and grabbing the top blanket to pull over himself. "Couldn't sleep. I heard you watching TV. Thought it might be more fun than just sitting up alone." Sniffing, he tucked my old ratty stuffed bear—the one I was embarrassed to hang onto, but not willing to let go of—beneath his arm. Esme brought it in for me once during one of my chemo treatments when I was nine; thought that somehow holding onto it for dear life would make me forget the needles that were being shoved into me like steak knives to a meatloaf.

It worked.

Edward gave me shit about it all the time, but tonight he just took it without word.

"Em?" His voice was hesitant. Odd. I was used to the cocky 'I'm better than you' tone.

I began to run through the channels again for something to do. "What?"

"Why don't we sit together at lunch anymore?"

My hand stopped suddenly, a confused expression masking my face as I turned to him. "Huh?"

He shrugged. "At lunch at school. You and me and Jasper. We always used to sit at the same table together. Now I sit with my friends, and you sit with yours, and Jasper…well, he sits alone I guess. But we're never together anymore. Why?"

I gave him a quizzical look before shaking my head. "Why would we? It's not like we have the same friends. You're a junior, I'm a senior. Jasper'd sit with Jacob if he didn't go to school on the rez. What does it matter?"

He looked somewhat disappointed at my answer, grimacing slightly for whatever the reason and slowly nodding. "Guess you're right."

I just took it for one of his overly-sensitive chick flick moments that the kid gets when he's spent too much quality time with Bella. He got a lot of those. Sometimes it worried me.

* * *

A/N: Hey guys! Rather than making up lame excuse after lame excuse as to my not updating in so long, I'll save us all the time and leave it at this: I'm sorry, I hope you can forgive me, and I thank you all for your patience and understanding. You don't know how much I appreciate it. I am going to be taking my And Then He Took My Hand series off of hiatus very soon, so you can be expecting my very routine updates (sarcasm) to be reocurring soon enough on that, for those of you still interested.

On an entirely different note, I just got back today from spending about a week or so at a hospital in Wisconsin. Recently, we've discovered that my mom has cancer, and she ended up getting both her ovaries and a part of her colon removed. Anyway, she's on the mend from that part of it, but still has a long road of chemo and other treatment ahead of her, so if you could all keep her in your thoughts and prayers, you have no idea how much it would mean to us all.

Thank you again guys! I love you all!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VI**

_"Trust in the Lord with all your heart;__  
__do not depend on your own understanding.__  
__Seek his will in all you do,__  
__and he will show you which path to take."_

_~Proverbs 3:5_

**Jasper**

_He looked across at the other, watching as his chest moved with each breath taken in and pushed out. Beautiful, really. A perfect, living sculpture. More than anything, he just wanted to jump across the room and take him._

_But no. The other wasn't like him. The other liked girls._

_The other boy wasn't attracted to him. Not like this._

_~Entry taken from Jasper Whitlock Cullen's Notebook, pg. 269_

Time passes rather slowly when you don't want it to. Like when you're staring at the floor, waiting for the minutes to tick faster so you can watch the premier show you've been wanting to see for the past month. Or when you're hurtled into a situation that you absolutely despise, and want to get done quickly. Whenever anything like that comes up, that's when the entire gravitational pull of the Earth seems to change against your favor.

This was one of those times.

My hand trailed steadily over my thick Roma Lussa journal, the one Carlisle and Esme had given me for my last birthday. I scowled as I tried to scrawl it all out fast enough, but my thoughts continued to once again race ahead of my physical ability. My fingers burned with the effort they were putting in to document it all. They were quickly becoming numb from the pain of my hard pencil pushing against them, but I ignored it.

It would be even worse to forget it later.

I suppose I should've been listening to the teacher's mind numbing droning, but as always, I managed to smother any common sense I may have originally had. The only thing I could concentrate on was the words that kept coming.

It felt good to get them down on paper.

Always did.

Plus, this was Spanish. I was good at Spanish. I didn't need to listen as hard. Besides, I wasn't bothering anyone. Mrs. Goff was able to freely continue with her lecture on AR verbs without my attention, so it must not've been that important. And to add on top of it all, I was far from the only one who figured they had better things to do.

Every other desk, someone was having a nearly mute conversation with their neighbors, even up to the front row. Either that or they were passing a crumpled piece of paper back and forth, scribbling their own quick note and handing it back to be read.

I hated it when people did that.

Every last bit of gossip that seemed to be so completely enduring to the rest of them did nothing more than make my skin crawl. All it did for me was reflect the shallowness of human nature.

Most of us didn't even know we did it. Most of us didn't even notice how we automatically tried to tune in when a name or phrase caught our attention. Things like 'got knocked up' and 'caught doing drugs' drew us in like bees to honey. It was our nectar, the need to know things. We were attracted to the need to know other people's pain. Each and every one of us became more alert when we heard some juicy news about someone else. We waited to see each other in pain like vultures, diving at the opportunity for some fresh flesh. We all gathered around for the opportune moment, wanting our chance to laugh at the punishment of someone else.

Human nature.

Simple as that.

It was all ingrained on us; the world took it so naturally. Even in sports, like fishing. A normal, everyday thing, right? We all stand in line to go out on the waters. We take joy from seeing the living thing dangling there, a hook jammed through its' mouth, wriggling to get away as the life was slowly sucked away.

And then we cheered.

We laughed and smiled for whoever got the biggest catch. We'd cut out their guts and hang them on our wall, because after all, that's what it was—a trophy. A dead body was sure as hell definitely worth showing off, wasn't it? It was worth being proud of.

Of course it was. I mean, honestly, who'd want to forget the happy memory of torturing something until it died?

Apparently no one, because after all, it was a part of us. Normal.

The need to get our daily helping of gossip, so we could thrive off of the hurt of someone else. So we all listen for the low whispers and quick glances, hoping we can start a rumor of our own. Because really, the lower everyone else is, the higher you rise.

And humans always had had a need to be the highest.

It all disgusted me.

What disgusted me more was that I knew I was the same.

Couldn't seem to help it. I never talked about anything I heard, no. Never spread rumors or shared any secrets. But I still couldn't stop myself from becoming interested in the voices all around me when I heard someone else's name being mentioned. It was all instinct. It made me sick, but it was still there. I was still fucking normal enough to thrive off of information on what was happening in everyone's life. Just like everyone else, I sucked up the soap opera dramas like a sponge.

Exactly the same as the rest of the fucking world.

**Esme**

There were certain times in my life when I looked back to what I had done—certain actions I had made—and couldn't help but wonder the _what ifs _in all of it. One time, in our college years, Carlisle and I had gotten into a fight. I can't recall what it was over, but I remember starting to walk away from him. I got all of five yards before turning back. I had always wondered what would have happened if I kept on walking. Other times, I'd think of Charles, and wondered what would have happened if I had agreed to marry him. Other times, I wondered what would have happened if my reproductive system worked properly—if I had a biological child, with my hair and Carlisle's eyes, and if we ever would have gotten our other children. Tonight, I was thinking of Emmett; of what would have happened if he had never gotten leukemia when he was eight, and if Carlisle had never been his doctor, and if his parents had never gone out for a drive that night, and if he had died at his relapse of sickness when he was fourteen.

Sometimes I wondered. And sometimes, all I could do was wonder what other _what ifs_ were coming.

"Emmett?" My oldest son's head shot up from where he had been staring at his plate, tired eyes wide as they looked on unknowingly at my husband.

"What?" The word fell from his lips too quickly, the fork he had been using to twist uneaten spaghetti falling from his hand.

Carlisle's brow pulled down slightly. "I asked how your day was."

He shrugged. "Fine."

Carlisle glanced at me, partly in surprise, partly in worry. Edward and Jasper were quiet, passing by answers in the typical teenage way. Emmett had always been more than happy to share what had transpired over his time away from us, eager to a point. It wasn't like him to give such monosyllabic answers.

"Just fine?"

Another shrug in answer to my question. "I guess."

He went back to staring at his plate.

"Oh."

It was silent again, the only sound being the hitting of silverware against porcelain and hushed chewing. Jasper finally cleared his throat, breaking the awkward tension, soft voice laced just barely in the slightly southern accent he had never broken out of. "I was wondering if I could go to La Push tomorrow night. They're having a bonfire." He swallowed hard. "Jake asked if I could come."

I smiled at him, though pain still staggered in my heart. Eight years he had been living with us, and he had never broken the habit of not wanting to ask for things. I couldn't stand it half the time. "Of course you can honey. Just be sure to drive safely. It's only supposed to sprinkle tomorrow, but the streets are still pretty icy." I looked back towards Carlisle in confirmation, but he was still staring across to Emmett, watching him intently; how he leaned heavily into the palm of his hand, and how his normally vacuum-like appetite seemed to have disappeared, just like every other meal of this week.

"Thanks," Jasper mumbled, folding back in on himself as he took another small bite of his mozzarella covered chicken.

"Mmhm."

Besides Edward's request of leaving for Bella's, no one else said anything until the end of dinner, the boys quick to excuse themselves—Edward to get to his place of happiness, Jasper to be away from us all, and Emmett to make the escape of the stares that had been aimed at him with more frequency as the time progressed. Carlisle and I remained, sitting silently at the dimly lit, circular dining room table. The edge in front of me had been chipped, an eternal remembrance of when Edward had decided he wanted to attempt roller-skating. This decision had been made alone, and when I got home from the store, blood had been splattered across the kitchen and Edward was in the corner, clutching his forehead and outright sobbing. It had been one of the most pitiful things I had ever seen.

"He hardly touched his food."

I sighed.

"And he was so tired, Esme. God, did you see the way he looked when he came home from school? He hardly made it to the couch before he collapsed."

I knew it was true. "Coach Clapp just found a new trainer for the team. You know he's been running them harder than Mr. Hurn ever did. And it's the end of the semester; he's been studying for exams so much. You know how he is with his grades."

Carlisle pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back further into his chair. "I came home at three in the morning today at the end of my shift, only to find him still in the living room asleep, surrounded by open books and an empty cup of coffee."

My lip quirked slightly. If ever there was a caffeine addict, it came by my baby. "Give it time dear. As soon as exams are over, he'll balance it out better."

"Esme," he murmured, looking at me with a face I had gotten all too used to seeing over the years. "He hasn't been eating. Don't tell me that you haven't noticed. He doesn't talk anymore from the exhaustion, and whenever he can be he's alone." He bit his lip. "It's just…this isn't Em. This isn't normal."

I spun my wedding ring around on my finger, attention directed towards the spider that was crawling across the corner ceiling at present. Amazing, how spiders could do that. "Carlisle, he's an eighteen year old boy. We're not supposed to expect him to act 'normal' all the time."

"I worry about him Es."

I kicked at the leg of the table slightly. The spider was starting to make its web. "You're not the only one."

"I know he's a teenager, but Emmett's not the same as everyone else. It takes so much to bring him down, and I just—"

"Can't help being a father." I cut him off, knowing all too well the feeling; the constant nagging that something was wrong, and that no matter how hard you may try, you couldn't get rid of it. "I know, and I understand. But we need to give him some space to work whatever this is out on his own."

He groaned slightly. "I love him with all my heart, but you know as well as I do that he's not good at working things out on his own. He cares as much about his own wellbeing as he does about keeping his room clean."

I pushed away, stacking the dishes on top of each other and carrying them wordlessly over to the sink, socked feet sliding easily over the tiled floor. Warming the water and splashing some soap over the mess, I grabbed a rag, scrubbing hard at the bread pan that would never fully be clean again. Its sides had been long ago blackened by use, and no matter how much I worked at it, I never could regain the shine. It held things just the same though.

I heard him come up behind me, feet hitting the floor evenly before he stood behind me, arms slowly wrapping themselves around my waist. An electric thrill ran the length of my body as he inhaled deeply at my neck, taking in the small hints of perfume left from where I had sprayed it this morning. Edward had gotten it for me after I had pointed out to him how I envied my friend for having some, and hated me for never getting around to buying some of my own.

"You're so beautiful."

"And you could proclaim yourself king of the world and all the women would bow down in worship."

He chuckled deeply, kissing my cheek lightly before grabbing a towel. "May I dry, Mrs. Cullen?"

"Why Dr. Cullen, I thought you'd never ask. We'll need to be careful not to be seen together though. Forks is a small town. Scandals travel fast."

"I do enjoy gossip."

**Bella**

Edward traced my face, fingers trailing down my neck as the pulse below them began to flutter. His touch, though cold, was something of a relief after our time away from each other. Even if short to an outsider, every second that ticked by without him near me seemed to take more and more from the clock, causing it to slow down. Sad, that I thought such things, but true. Maybe it was just my first real high school crush, but it felt like so much more. I hoped it was so much more.

"Do you know how exquisite your skin is?"

An eyebrow rose. "Hmm?"

He threw me a lopsided smile from where he was laying beside me on my bed, causing another shudder to tremble through my spine. "Your skin. Most people have a greater roughness. Yours is smoother, almost more delicate in a way." He leaned down, kissing below my chin where his hand had just sat. "Exquisite."

I rolled my eyes, though the tingling sensation refused to leave all the same. "What if it weren't?"

"Bella, what are you talking about?" His tone had turned playful, a song curving his voice.

"If I were to burst out into a horrible acne tomorrow and my nose was covered in witch pimples. What then?"

His kisses traveled up, lingering at the edge of my mouth. Only the edge though. "I have always felt the Wicked Witch of the West was severely misunderstood. Nobody ever gave her a real chance." I remained still as he moved to poise himself above me, mouth just millimeters away from mine and minty breath warmly welcoming against me. "Unless, of course, you were going more towards Harry Potter. I can change the imaging if you'd like."

My pulse thudded harder. "You know, I used to be a rather big Harry Potter fan. Saying that Hermione had a skin problem is really rather insulting."

He snickered. "I remember." He exhaled theatrically. "I was so excited to get into fifth grade, until I found out the you had gone off to join the wizarding fan club, and I didn't have the right password."

My breathing quickened as he leaned closer. "It was _Dumbledore's beard_," I whispered, realizing only after I had said it just how ridiculous it sounded.

"Hmm." His tongue just faintly traced my bottom lip. "How fitting. It has a ring of eloquence I suppose."

And then I couldn't take it: I grabbed his head, and pulled him down to me."

**Carlisle**

I hesitated just outside Emmett's door, fist raised in preparation for a knock, though it took me a good half minute before I actually lowered it against the wood.

"What?" A wave of relief washed over me to find I hadn't waked him, though at the same time a disappointment hit me hard. Even his voice sounded weary.

Pushing it aside, I stepped into his room, kicking aside a shirt as I did so in order for the door to get fully open. _He cares as much about his own wellbeing as he does about keeping his room clean. _I grimaced as my words from before repeated in my head like a broken record that wouldn't stop. Truth often had a way of being horribly cruel.

He was on his bed, lying on his stomach, chewing heavily at a pencil as his eyes pored over a textbook. The seam was falling apart from old age, though it hardly came as a shock; God forbid Forks High School ever be blessed with the slightest raise in government support. According to their encyclopedias, the Soviet Union was still in a thriving existence.

"Hey," I started softly, making my way over to him, sitting down at his side. The mattress squealed in protestation. Every time Esme and I had tried to coax him into letting us get a new one, he ignored us. Never mind the spine problems he'd have in fifty years, new mattresses 'smelled funny.'

He didn't answer me. Instead, he grabbed a page of notes, scribbling something quickly down before tossing it back to its original position, continuing on in his reading.

Though his attitude as of late had screamed to keep a distance from him, I pushed it back. Cautiously, I reached out, letting my palm rest lightly on his shoulder for a long moment. He froze momentarily beneath my touch, muscles tensing, though quickly resumed what he was doing, ignoring me for the most part.

Taking it as enough permission, I began to carefully kneed my fingers down in a gentle massage, the knots in his back clearly defined. It made the idea of a new mattress all the more tempting.

I sat mutely for a long moment, attempting to organize my thoughts into a plan of action, trying to find a starting place, though the only thing I could come up with was the lame beginning of "Are you doing alright?"

He became further rigid beneath my probing contact, nonmoving as I searched for the pressure points that I could only assume were causing him discomfort. Constantly leaning over desks wasn't much of a help when he was already handled as a punching bag during football practice. "I'm fine."

Of course he was.

Frustrated, I went for the only subject that generally made him talk, no matter the circumstances. "I haven't seen Rosalie around here for a while. How's she doing."

"I don't know." He didn't offer anything else.

My hands slipped beneath his shirt, and as I molded down into the small of his back, I pushed further. "You don't know?"

He didn't seem to enjoy the idea of explaining in more detail, though he reiterated just loud enough for me to hear. "She's been at her aunts the past few days. Haven't heard from her yet. She said she'd call."

I felt the confusion smash into me, like a brick to an innocent bystander near a construction site. He was as attached to his girlfriend just as much as every other kid his age would be, and he had been deteriorating in mood over the past few days, though it hardly wrote it all off. It wasn't enough for him to be acting the way he was; completely un-Emmett at every angle. Not even Edward took it this far when away from Bella for that long, and those two had been joined as best friends since grade school.

"Em," I tried again, though worry for his sake was beginning to ride over patience. "You know you can come to me for anything, right?" I chewed at the inside of my cheek. "If you ever just need to talk…" I mentally kicked myself. Like mundane reassurances would get him to open up.

He flinched when I pressed at a tender spot, digging his body into the bed. The studying he had been working on seemed to be gone from his mind, attention to it lost as my fingers worked at his overly-worn tissues.

Otherwise, he remained stoic and gave no indication of speaking.

I felt the hope draining from me, a part of me, however stupid that part may have been, having expected to just walk in here and coax him into telling me the cause of his recent, depressed disposition. Now, it dawned on me how much more difficult it would be than a mere therapy session, where I could just snap and fix everything like a genie.

I began on a new knot.

"You've just been pushing yourself so much lately. Your mom and I are scared for you."

"Sorry."

I had been praying for him to say more, though at the word, my gut dropped. I wasn't helping; all I was doing was making him feel guilty. "You've got nothing to apologize for. We just—" I stumbled for a good enough wording, one that wouldn't make him shut down on me even further. Finally, I went for the best thing that would come, though nonetheless, it was hardly good. "We just want to make sure you're okay."

My fingers slipped just below the hem of his sweatpants, pressing down at the vertebrate near his hipbone. "We know you've been really stressed lately," I continued, silently yet fervently urging him to let his guard down, something he very rarely did. Either he sheltered himself in a cushion of jokes and smiles, or, on the rare occasion, in a simple, introverted prison. I was still debating over which was the better way. One certainly made me feel better, though which one was the healthiest for him, I remained unsure.

He began pulling at a loose thread in the wrinkled quilt beneath us.

"I just want to make sure that you know that you can talk to me about anything. Whatever you say stays between us. And I may be old, but I do know what it's like to be eighteen." My poor attempt at a joke fell flat, not moving him in the least. Slowly, I felt my persistence crumbling in around me.

_Don't force it Carlisle. This is about him. You've set the bait. Now let him come to you._

"You've been really quiet lately, that's all."

I didn't get an answer.

"It might help if you took a break from football for a bit." Once more, the sudden apprehension that seemed to hang to him came full force, though still, he was speechless. "You don't have to. I just need you to know that if you need to, we're behind you completely."

Pulling back, I stared at the wall, scratching slightly at my collar.

"I don't want to quit football." His tone was somnolent as before, though there was no question to his statement. It made me smile. The kid liked sports.

"Em?"

I waited.

"Emmy. Look at me."

Slowly, he pushed himself up from where he was lying, meeting my gaze with the red, puffy eyes of his own.

He had been crying.

Not wanting to embarrass him, I tried not to acknowledge it, though it only made me worry all the more. He wasn't one for showing emotions, and it was scarce that he ever shed any tears. It was cause enough to make my thoughts spin faster. "What's going on?"

He shrugged me off. "Nothing's going on."

Automatically, my arms crossed over my chest, gaze level on him as his own dropped back down. "Nothing? Emmett, you can't really expect me to just believe that, do you?"

Another shrug.

"Em." It came out as more of a beg than anything. "Please. Talk to me. Tell me what I can do to help, whatever this is about."

Nothing.

Feeling utterly useless, I nodded, struggling to convince myself that I had done anything. "Let me know if you need anything. You know where to find me." It seemed a rather inadequate end.

I stood, though froze in my steps at his quiet word. "Dad?"

Trying though falling short miserably to not appear to ecstatic that he had talked again, I spun back around, watching him pushing himself up to face me. He wavered for a gruelingly long minute, seeming to pose an internal struggle with himself, before finally giving up. "Never mind."

Disheartened and slightly thwarted in optimism, I left, holding the doorknob as I pulled it shut behind me. I just stood in the dark hallway, feeling the coolness of the metal travel up my wrist and into my torso. "Please. Let me help you. Let me in."

My dead prayer hung in the air.

* * *

A/N: Hello all! Thank you for all of you who've been thinking of my mom. She appreciates all you prayers and concerns, and passes on her thanks. :)

And I have a feeling that you're all going to ask due to my first part of this chap, but no, Jasper isn't gay, and yes, Alice will be coming. Later. It'll hopefully give you something to look forward to. Oh, and to make sure that I get full credit for doing my research, the Mr. Hurn I mentioned earlier is the real and genuine football coach at Forks High. Looked it up on their website. Ten points for me.

Love you!


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